The Dark Ages II: Out of Elsweyr
by L'Ankou
Summary: Sigrid thought the Gods and other annoying entities would forget about her for a while. But she was wrong... And how to prevent the end of the world when you are heavily pregnant ? Rated M for Lucien, toads, squashed bananas and Rastajiits. Ch.16 up
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The Multiverse! The inextricable and fragile jungle of universes, where time and space don't have any meaning, where the improbable rubs shoulders with the rational, where the choices of one influence the lives of many…

The Multiverse, yes! The object of much care but also much greed…

From the outside – given it is possible to have something outside the Multiverse – it looks like a huge woollen ball, gleaming in the vast emptiness of the nothingness. But if you were taking a closer look, you could realise it is composed of many strings which looks like as if they were made out of pure light.

Each of this string represented a single universe – or a dimension, if you prefer. And despite the infinity of them, they never _ever_ cross or touched one another. Oh, they can get close and influenced each other, yes! But entering in contact with one another would mean their end and it would threaten the balance of the whole Multiverse. And if the balance of the Multiverse is threaten…

But let's forget about that very depressing idea and let's zoom on three particular strings-universes. They are close to each other, _very_ close, but perfectly parallel. They don't have anything special compared to the other universes, except that their inhabitants called them respectively Oblivion, Nirn and Aetherius. No, these worlds have nothing special, really.

Nothing… except that one if moving dangerously close to the second one…


	2. Of toads, swamps and jellyfishes

**Chapter 1**

**Asante sana, squashed banana, wiwi nugu mi apana****! XD**

**And here we go again!**

**Gah, it is so hard to start writing again when your fingers and your brain feel all "rusty".**

**The first chapters of sequels are always a pain in the ass because you have to describe a bit what happened before while giving a taste of what is going to happen in the story. I hope this chapter won't be too boring! **

**As indicated by the title, m****ost of the action of this fanfic will take place in Elsweyr. But another important bit will take place at the frontier of Cyrodiil and Morrowind, several years before the second storyline. It is the first time I am writing two stories linked to one another, so I hope it won't get too confusing...**

**Oh, and j****ust for you to know, I have decided to make a parallel between Elweyr's cultures and people and with the ones on the African continent (I think I have reached the last stage of nerdiness XD).**

**Well, have fun (I hope XD) !**

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The swamps, source of life and death…

The sun was setting on the desolated region at the far south of the fertile Deshaan Plains, its last rays of light playing in the dark branches of the trees and blazing the usually foggy swamps.

The place was very quiet, which was quite exceptional. Normally, the swamps should have been buzzing with life – and death – but now, it seemed that the place had been deserted… Of course, it was only an impression – the swamps were never sleeping – and, somewhere near an half submerged rock, something moved under the water. There were a few swirls, and then a green and palmed leg emerged, followed by another one as well as a pair of huge and bulky eyes. Slowly, a toad got out of the water.

It looked carefully around before taking a few more steps on the rock. Then, it stopped and listened carefully to the familiar noises around it.

Here, in the bogs which were delimiting the territories of Morrowind from those of the Black Marsh, the toads' life was not easy. Indeed, they were an essential part of the diet of most of the other creatures which were living in the dark and fetid waters of the swamps.

But in the toads' short and miserable lives, there were those little moments of peace, just before sunset or sunrise, when the diurnal predators gave up their place to the nocturnal ones – and vice versa. This regular to-ings and fro-ings was granting the batrachians and all the creatures located at the wrong end of the food chain some respite, and the toad was decided to make the most of it.

Cautiously, the toad climbed a little higher on the rock and gave a shy cawing. It then quickly took a few steps back, ready to jump into the water at the first sign of hostility. But nothing happened and the surroundings were still quiet. Getting bolder, the toad climbed on the top of the stone.

"Rabbit!" it croaked again, much stronger this time.

As it was still standing firmly on the rock and in one piece, the toad inflated his chest and launched himself into a crazy croaking concert.

The unitinated would have thought that the toad was going crazy, which, in a sense, was the case. The "love" season had started, and here and there, on the surface of the water, one could distinguish, among the waterlilies and other water plants, several pairs of bulky eyes lined with long eyelashes, all riveted on the toad. But unfortunately for the toad and its female admirers, unexpected guests were about to interrupt the serenade…

The sound of large creatures approaching put an end to the song recital, and panicked, the audience disappeared beneath the water again. As for the toad, it jumped out of the stone, dived into the water and hid in the waterlilies while keeping an eye on the intruders.

The noise was growing louder, and suddenly, a group of six men sprung up from behind a dead tree. Five of them were dragging a tied up man behind them, and they were progressing across the soaked lands with difficulty, floundering in the mud, their heavy armour not being really suitable for such kind of marshy lands. Only one of them seemed not to have problems and was walking in front of the group, apparently not hearing to the swearing of his companions.

If the toad had been versed in Dunmer politics, it would have noticed that the soldiers were wearing the colours of the House of Dres. They were leading by an old and bald Dunmer – the one who was making progress without difficulty. He was wearing a simple green robe embroidered with the symbol of the Tribunal. But of course, the toad did not care about politics and religion. All it minded right now was the fact those intruders ruined its evening and what they were about to do know.

The bulky eyes of the toad followed them until they stopped at a place where what looked like a wooden grate was already lying on the ground. Not far away, a second grate had been put against a tree, near a pile of big and heavy stones.

The old Dunmer made a sign to the soldiers and they grabbed their prisoners, forcing him to kneel on the ground as they untied him. Then, they put him on his feet again, pushed him toward the grate on the ground and made him laying on it while quartering his members.

"There are rules and equilibriums that should not be disturbed. You broke the rules and the equilibriums." the bald Dunmer said in a flat voice.

"Rules! Equilibriums!" the young man shrieked as the guards started to tie his hands and feet at the corner of the granting. "You just made all that up to prevent us to use the _real_ power! The power of our Daedric Gods, our true lords!"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" barked one of the guards, striking the boy in the face with the handle of his spears. The latter whined and licked his bloody lips.

"It is too late now." the old Dunmer priest replied softly. "The swamps demand payment. Nothing else except your life would do, traitor."

"You are doomed! You are all doomed!" yelled the young Dunmer, his voice echoing strangely among the dead trees of the swamps.

"Save you breath. You will need it." the priest said coolly.

From menace and anger, the young man's tone suddenly moved to fear and despair.

"No, please, no!" he begged. "You don't have to do that. I have money… I can pay you! Look, tell me what you need and…"

Ignoring the prisoner's plea, the priest made another sign to the guards. They nodded and added the second grate on the prisoner, the two grates now forming a cage. Then the soldiers moved the prisoners to a peat bog. The young man's body twitched in his cage when his back entered in contact with the cold and muddy water. The guards left and went picking up the stones which were standing near the tree.

"Your life ends up now." the priest said, rising his hands in the air. "Your name will be forgotten and the peace will be restored."

"No, please!" yelled the prisoner, wriggling and writing in his bonds – but the second grate was preventing him from moving much. "Don't do that! I will mend my way! I swear! Idon't want to die! _I don't want to die!_"

Ignoring the prisoner's pleas and threats, the soldiers started to put stones on the upper grate and their weight pushed the cage and its occupier in the mud. The young man was whining like a puppy. His moans became louder and louder as the mud was rising slowly on his legs, harm, and then chest. But it is when the water reached his face that they turned into screams of sheer despair, abruptly shut when the mud covered his mouth. But his wide eyes continued to express his silent horror. They were rolling in his orbits, and he did not shut them even when the mud covered them as well.

Soon, the prisoner and his cage were absorbed by the peat bog.

The soldiers and the priest looked at the mud bubbling for a while. When it finally stopped, the priest had a sigh. He then made a sign to the guards to follow him and the procession disappeared in the fog which had started to rise once more.

The swamps, source of life and of death …

Somewhere in the fog, the toad started to sing again.

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"Hey! Does anyone want some toad?" asked Havilstein Hoar-blood happily, passing a dishes around. "It tastes like chicken!"

"These are not toads, Havilstein, but frog's legs." J'Ghasta growled. "A _very_refined and _extremely_ expensive dish I specially ordered for our Black Hand meeting, so please try to act as a gentleman and avoid such commentaries as 'it tastes like chicken'."

"Well, it does…" Lucien Lachance murmured, while delicately tearing to piece the frog leg he was holding between his fingers.

J'Ghasta, the Khajiit Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and certainly one of the most talented assassins of his generation, sighed heavily and curbed his urge to bury his face in his hand from sheer weariness. Being a visionary could be so hard, and when even his best friend Lucien Lachance failed to understand him, he felt very alone.

The Dark Brotherhood was a very old organisation. It had been flourishing for centuries in the shadows, thriving on the many years of political conflicts which had divided the continent of Tamriel as well as on the on the small and petty rivalries between individuals. Fear, greed, betrayal and hatred had always been the foul compost on which the Dark Brotherhood had been developing under the guidance of Sithis, the Void and of His intermediaries on Nirn, the Night Mother and her faithful and loyal Black Hand, the executive body of the organisation.

But what goes around comes around, and the latest events which almost had lead to the destruction of the Brotherhood had convinced the Khajiit changes were necessary. To him, the betrayal which destabilised the highest authority of the assassins' sect was linked to a problem of communication and human relationships.

Hence, he had tried to rationalise the organisation, revamping old structures and introducing new ideas such as "human resources management" and all its corollaries, like "job rotation", "individual development planning" and "360-degree feedback". He also tried to improve the relations between the members of the Black Hand by organising their monthly meetings in the cosy private room located on the floor above the new restaurant he just opened in Cheydinhal. In his opinion, it was far more enjoyable than gathering in cold and humid caves full of those big dribbling candles which left whitish marks on their Black Hand robes.

But unfortunately, his new vision of the assassin profession was coming against the some members' conception of the Brotherhood, who saw the organisation not essentially as a _business_, but as a _cult_. And even people who were sharing J'Ghasta's point of view, like Lucien, had some difficulty to follow his reasoning. But it did not really matter: the Khajiit was a patient individual and he had enough means at his disposal to reach his ends…

After all, in addition of being an assassin, J'Ghasta was also a merchant. A very rich and powerful merchant, to be more precise. And these two occupations were mixing very well indeed. His activity as a trader allowed him to launder most of the money from his activity in the Dark Brotherhood and thus to avoid tedious explanations with the Imperial Taxes Administration on the source of his important revenues…

"Now that everybody is served," the Khajiit started, his eyes running on the small audience, "I will let Speaker Carella make a point on the economic activity of the Brotherhood for this month – _and Havilstein, for Sithis' sake, stop chewing with you mouth open…!_ Speaker Carella, please…"

At the mention of her name, Andarel Carella stood up and started to speak. Her voice shook a little first, but the more she was speaking, the more confident she sounded. J'Ghasta listened for the two first minutes of her introduction and, his mind at rest about the quality of her performance, he let his thoughts straying.

Carella, a wood elf, had been the latest recruit of the Black Hand. She was rather young despite the fact she already had spent quite a lot of time in the Brotherhood. It was her discretion and efficiency that had drawn J'Ghasta's attention on her candidature as a Speaker for the Black Hand as well as her obedience and loyalty – two merits, which, according to the Listener, were seriously missing in the current Black Hand.

The Khajiit sighed and his eyes fall on Arquen, the Speaker of Chorrol Sanctuary. As usual, the High Elf's face was frozen in her typical disdainful pout as if she was constantly living in a pestilential environment.

If obedience was not posing her any problem – Arquen had turned bootlicking into an art – the Altmer had certainly never heard of loyalty, or, if she had, she probably thought it was some kind of insult… J'Ghasta's glance then moved onto the man sitting next to her.

Havilstein Hoar Blood, Speaker of Bruma and former Silencer of Arquen, had made a lot of progress since he joined the Dark Brotherhood. Indeed, when he arrived, he basically had the intellectual abilities of something you could find squashed under your boots… Well, Havilstein still had now an IQ close to the one of an oyster but at least he had stopped "talkin' lik' dat'".

No, in the Nord's case, the problem was not so much his lack of loyalty or obedience but rather the fact that he was too thick to be something else than a perfect lackey, and Arquen was making the most of it. And if loyalty was a desirable quality, blind obedience was not, especially when you were occupying a function such as Speaker of the Black Hand, where a minimum of independent judgement was required.

As for Lucien Lachance… The Speaker of the Cheydinhall Sanctuary and J'Ghasta had known each other for a long time and, as weird as it may seem in a world where killing is the rule, one may qualify them as "friends". The Listener acknowledged Lucien had many qualities. He was a great assassin, a clever person as well as a charismatic leader. But he was also showing a dangerous amount of self-confidence and independence which often bordered on arrogance and insubordination. And his victory over the Ankou, Death's Servant who had betrayed his master Sithis, did not arrange matters.

Thanks – or because – of this, Lucien had literally become a living legend within the Brotherhood and now he was constantly wearing on his face this annoying little air of self-satisfaction which was seriously getting on J'Ghasta's nerves…

"Er, right… Thank you Speaker Carella for that very enlightening report." the Khajiit said quickly, having realised the Wood Elf ended her speech and that everyone was now looking at him. "Now, I would like us to tackle particular issues. As you all know, the political situation remains rather unsteady and…"

"Unsteady?" Arquen interrupted him. "That's the euphemism of the year…!"

J'Ghasta shot the High Elf a very dark look and the latter cowered on her chair.

"It is true things are not getting clearer." Lucien said in a soft voice. "And they probably will not in the nearest future…"

"I don't understand…" said Carella. "Usually, unstable political situations favour our… kind of business. I remember, a few decades ago, when Lord Vivec stepped down, resulting in the Tribunal collapsing. The huge political mess that followed in Morrowind ensured steady revenues to the Morag Tong as well as to other underground organisations specialised in physical eliminations."

"Yes, but in this case, rival factions were clearly determined." explained Arquen. "You had the Telvannis, the Redorans, the Hlaalus, the Dres, the Tribunal, the supporters of King Helseth, the ones of the Empire and so on... And everybody knew where he or she belonged to and who his or her enemy was."

The Listener grunted and made a sign to Lucien to pass him the jellyfishes salad dish.

"How many involved parties are there exactly?" the Khajiit asked while helping himself with a large portion of invertebrates.

"It is the problem, actually." said Lucien, making a face. "There are many of them. And as Arquen pointed out, most of them are not clearly determined and rarely harmonious… Actually, the protagonists sharing the same objectives often don't even think they are forming a faction!"

J'Ghasta gave Lucien a huge grin.

"Wanna try to explain us, o you political genius?"

Lucien rolled his eyes, and with an amused expression on his face, grabbed the jellyfish dish. His companions watched him picking several animals of different colours and arranging them carefully in his plate.

"Right. Let's imagine that each of the jellyfishes' colours represent a faction. Each party is aiming at the same goal: ensure its political dominance in the future political organisation…"

"… which, as it been declared by Chancellor Ocato, is going to be a federal Republic, as decided by the majority of the Council." concluded J'Ghasta. "Fine. So far, I am not completely lost."

"Well, basically, you have three philosophies in competition here." Lucien continued in a learned voice. "First, those who support the creation of a Republic: Chancellor Ocato of course, as well as the authorities of the federated provinces, the small gentry and the middle class. Then, those who are going to loose a lot of power within the new Republic and would like to keep the Empire it was: the Blades, useless now there is no Emperor left, and the mages, undesirable on the political stage after their alliance with the Montforts... And last but not least, you have those who absolutely don't care - this faction mainly consisting in Count Janus Hassildor of Skingrad."

There was a thoughtful pause during which the assassins looked carefully at Lucien's multi-coloured plate.

"I am sorry but I cannot really see anything complicated here. Rather, it all seems pretty clear." said Arquen carefully.

Lucien's lips curled up in a cunning smile.

"You see, 'Seem' is the keyword here…"

"And what about the Counts of Cyrodiil?" asked Carella. "You mentioned Hassildor, but what about the others? Their weight in the political arena is huge, making them almost as powerful as the rulers of the provinces…."

"Precisely, and this is where things get interesting." Lucien replied, his smile growing wider as he took more jellyfishes from the dish and put them in his plate. "They don't have a common position on the matter. If the Counts Nirana Carvain and Burd of Bruma as well as Salvian Matius of Kvatch support the creation of the Republic, the other Counts are very hostile to the project given it could threatened the various advantages they have acquired over time."

J'Ghasta gave a big sigh and started to massage his temples.

"Don't tell me… Given that delighted expression on your face, we have reached the fun part, haven't we?"

The Speaker winked at the Khajiit and carried on with his explanation.

"The Blades are as well much divided on the matter. Some have accepted the fact their order is now without foundation since the Septim dynasty is… extinct, and so support the Republic. Other, on the contrary, still desperately fight to find a reason for their order to continue to exist, and to put a new Emperor on the throne."

As he was giving his explanations, Lucien had starting moving the jellyfishes around his plate, creating a colourful and squeaking ballet. The others were glaring at it, apparently unable to remove their glance from the dancing jellyfishes.

"Next, the mages… After Archmage Hannibal Traven sacrificed himself to allow Master Ontus Vanin and Count Janus Hassildor to definitely get rid of Mannimarco, the King of Worms, the Arcane University is looking for a new leader. Is everyone still following me?"

The Black Hand members exchanged looks and a concert of rather unenthusiastic "yes" answered him.

"Good. Several candidates were found to succeed Traven." Lucien said, leaving the tortured jellyfishes for a while and starting counting on his fingers. "First on the list, Janus Hassildor, who politely declined the offer… Second, Ontus Vanin, who told everyone to get lost..."

"It sounds so much like Vanin…" the Listener whispered, grinning widely.

"And third," Lucien continued, ignoring J'Ghasta's remark, "Raminus Polinus, who would be delighted to get the job, but as he was a great supporter of Traven, he basically can forget about it. Then you have also a dozens more candidates who…"

As Lucien continued to chime out the names of the candidates for the Archmage's position, J'Ghasta's eyes fall upon his plate, where all jellyfishes of different colours were now mixed in a humid and blobby pile. This was certainly one of the most depressing and pathetic things he had seen in his whole life, and not only because it was giving him an accurate representation of the current political situation...

"Lucien, could you avoid dwelling on the details and stay global, please?" the Listener sighed as Lucien was giving him a very detailed social background of candidate number three.

The Speaker made a pout but stopped.

"Fine." he sighed. "To sum it up, Hassildor is not candidate anymore and pretends to be neutral about politics, but he is very influent among mages and he supports Nirana Carvain, hence the Republic… Vanin supports Hassildor. As for Polinus, he remains a non negligible quantity, and, given his hate of the former two, he would do anything to put a spoke in their wheels."

There was a pause. A very long pause, during which the assassins looked gloomily at the plate. The jellyfishes glared back.

"I take back what I said earlier." mumbled Arquen. "Pardon my Argonian, but it is a bloody mess."

"Not a bloody, but a _blobby_ one…" J'Ghasta giggled as he poked the contents of the plate with a finger.

"And I did not mention the Knights of the Nine." Lucien replied cheerfully. "They have stated their position as neutral on the subject. But it seems we don't have the same definition of 'neutrality'."

"Which means…?" asked Carella, raising an eyebrow.

"This means I am convinced they would love to arbitrate the current conflict and take the place left empty by the Blades."

Arquen had a little cough.

"And… Do they have the means to do that? Because, so far, they have seemed more enhanced in their mission of venerating the Nine and defending the Clergy than in politics…"

Lucien had one of his "know-it-all" smiles as he nonchalantly leaned against the back of his chair with the elegance of a cat. He was about to put his feet on the table when a killing glare and a heavy warning cough by J'Ghasta prevented him to do so.

"It is true – to some extend… If their leader, Lord Symetrius Jouaux – the "Victor of Umaril" as they call him – doesn't give a damn about politics, it is not the case of some of his closest advisors, the first of which being the Order's moral guarantee, a priest called Jôme. Jôme the Dark."

"Jôme the Dark…" repeated Carella thoughtfully. "Isn't he that short and stocky guy whose ruby complexion is certainly not due to his love for walks in the fresh air…?"

"I am afraid you got him mixed with the Prophet." Lucien chuckled. "Father Jôme sees alcohol as a plague, except when it is used to light the stakes of the sinners and heretics…. No, Jôme is a tall, gloomy-looking and emaciated man - so emaciated actually that every time he is walking toward you, you have the feeling a halberd is being thrown at you!"

The assassins burst out laughing, except for Havilstein who was glaring at the jellyfishes, looking completely lost.

"What's wrong, man?" asked J'Ghasta, who had noticed the Nord's confusion.

"I didn't understand anything Lucien said and now I have a headache…" whines Havilstein, still squinting on Lucien's plate. He was looking at it so hard his eyes were watering. J'Ghasta patted him gently on the shoulder.

"This happens when talking about politics!" he said happily. "Don't worry for that, and you can eat the jellyfishes if you want." The Khajiit then turned toward Lucien "Thanks for that exposé, Lucien. Now, we need to determine the Dark Brotherhood's strategy regarding that situation."

"A strategy?" asked Lucien with caution. "Do we currently have the means to anticipate anything? I seriously doubt it, given we don't have any advantage over the other protagonists and…"

"You seem to forget a point." J'Ghasta interrupted him. "We have Martin Septim's offspring, the heir of the Imperial throne… And no need to say we are far ahead of everyone thanks to that!"

"But the baby is not there yet..." Lucien said in a soft voice.

"Him – or her – being still in gestation doesn't mean we can't make plans..." Carella pointed out. "By the way, is our future mother still living as a recluse?"

J'Ghasta saw a series of wrinkles materializing on Lucien's forehead at the wording of the question and he felt some amusement in his irritation. You just had to mention Sigrid Trencavel for him to start seething inside.

"Yes, she does… She spends almost all her time in the Sanctuary, helping Ocheeva with the organisation and accountancy, training with M'raaj-Dar and yelling at people. And when she deigns to put a foot outside, she systematically goes to visit Scribonius."

"An' vhy doef' fhe yellvzs atf' peopl'?" asked Hoar-Blood, his mouth full of jellyfishes.

"Because she is angry." Lucien replied curtly.

"An' vhy if' fhe ang'y?"

This time, the Speaker of Cheydinhall's face openly twitched in anger.

"And why don't you just _shut up_, Havilstein…?"

"What does Sigrid do exactly at Scribonius'?" J'Ghasta asked to get information as much as to prevent an argument between the two Speakers.

Lucien shrugged and took the cup of wine standing in front of him on the table.

"The old man has decided to train her in the Magical Arts." he said indifferently, staring into the dark red liquid in his cup.

"The Magical Arts… Do you mean by that… 'the Dark Arts'?" Arquen asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." he replied, sipping his wine.

"And it doesn't worry you more than that…?" J'Ghasta asked, his tone being a mix of anger and incomprehension.

Lucien put his cup back on the table and riveted his eyes on the Listener's.

"No."

There was a silence quickly broken off by exclamations of surprise when the Listener banged with both fists on the table.

"By Sithis, Lucien! Trencavel is going to be a_mother!_ Do you think it is normal for her to spend her time reading books about turning dead bodies into her personal slaves for eternity?!"

"How should I know?" Lucien protested. "I am not an expert in the subject, like you…" he added nastily.

"There no need to be an expert for that!" the Khajiit spat. "She should be doing things like knitting clothes for the baby…!"

"…waking up people in the middle of the night because she wants to eat strawberries…" Carella added.

"…buying cuddly toys…!" Havilstein exclaimed happily.

"… reading books on why her child would hate her whatever she does to be a good mother…**1**" Arquen continued. "Why are you all looking at me that way?" she added quickly when she realised everybody was shooting her very weird glances.

"Nevermind…" J'Ghasta said in a cough. "In short, Lucien, she should _not_ spend her time at a crazy necromancer's place! It is not _healthy_! Do you realise she has not even started thinking for a name for the baby?!"

The other nodded in agreement. Lucien looked at his companion, bewildered, and when he realised they were shooting him reproachful glances, he became sullen.

"So what do you people want me to do? To accompany her in 'future moms' meetings?!" he snarled.

"Maybe you should talk to her and try to…" Arquen started.

"_She. hates. me_!" Lucien burst out, his patience wearing thing. "Can't you get it?! Every time I go to the sanctuary, she either avoids me and only talks to me when forced to… And when we are talking, it always ends up in a row, with her being insolent with me in front of the rest of the sanctuary!"

"So what?" asked Arquen, sounding surprised. "You have the reputation to know how to deal with recalcitrant people. Give her a good hiding and everything will be fine!"

Lucien sighed and buried his face in his hands.

"I _can't_!" he mumbled his palms, before opening his fingers and launching a killing glance at J'Ghasta. "The Listener will not let me too because she is pregnant…"

"Of course I won't let you!" the Khajiit said with a smile. "And Arquen is right. It is high time you two solve your personal issues."

"J'Ghasta, please…" Lucien begged. "You know she will not listen to me!"

"Maybe." the Listener replied flatly. "But you see, I have the feeling you are part of the problem… And maybe having a frank discussion with her would help to sooth things. Just try to a little bit more understanding with her, all right?"

Making a sour face, Lucien made an annoyed cluck with his tongue but did not try to discuss the matter further. He knew where he had lost, and here, it was clear that things were not negotiable.

"We will discuss our strategy during the next meeting - after you talk to Trencavel." J'Ghasta continued. "And now, any questions before we move on the next subject…? Yes, Havilstein?"

The big Nord looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat twice and finally spoke in a little voice.

"Er… If Sigrid doesn't want to buy her baby a cuddly toy… Do you think she would mind buying me one?"

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"By Sithis!" Teinaava asked, raising his head from the book he was reading and looking at the ceiling. "What are they doing upstairs?"

The Dark Brotherhood assassin then looked at his companions, who consisted in a blond and cute little Breton girl, a gigantic Orc and of course M'raaj-Dar, the Khajiit who was as pleasant as a bunch of starving piranhas and who was currently playing chess with the latest recruit of the Cheydinhall sanctuary.

"I think new customers have stepped in…" grumbled Gogron the Orc. "And given by the noise they are making, there must be around twenty of them."

In a harmonious move, the group looked toward the ceiling when the racked increased above their head and a little bit of plaster fall into Gogron's beer mug.

"I can't believe Lucien let a tavern open just above your head!" Teinaava whines once the din finally died.

"Not a tavern." Antoinetta Marie corrected him. "A…" she frowned. "How does the Listener call it again?"

"A _restaurant_." said someone. "It is a new concept."

All faces turned toward the man who had just spoken. The latter remained quite unperturbed despite being the centre of attention. But after all, Belisarius Arius was not famous for being a very emotive and demonstrative person.

With his groomed look and polite attitude, he reminded all his companions of a butler. But not any sort of butler. Rather, the one which could be found in detective stories or in "Cluedo". And Arius was definitely the kind of majordomo to kill Dr. Black, but also the rest of the guests, using for that the rope, the knife, the candlestick and the poison.

Many strange rumours were running on the man's account. He was no novice in the Dark Brotherhood and the Cheydinhall Sanctuary was far from being the first Sanctuary he had stayed in. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the procedures in application in the organisation and was able to quote the exact amount of money a contract executed ten years ago earned the Brotherhood. Some had argued that Arius' incredible memory was linked to his pathological obsession with details and order - and they were certainly right.

Belisarius Arius was so obsessive he usually tidied the room in which the assassination he performed took place, and, in some extreme cases, even did the shopping and took the dog out.

No one was really sure about what was his life before he became an assassin for the Dread Father. But the most persistent rumour was depicting him as an obscure clerk working in an equally obscure office, and it was apparently the way he murdered his boss which drew the attention of the Dark Brotherhood on his case. Again, the circumstances around the event were not clear, but apparently, Arius managed to demonstrate the proverb "the pen is mightier than the sword" thanks to his extremely sharp pen and his boss' very short sword…

To sum it up, Belisarius Arius was a perfect psychopath who, if he had been living on the same plan of the Multiverse as Hannibal Lecter and Charles Manson, would have made them cowered in a corner and calling for their mummies. But Arius' pedigree did not mean anything to Gogron, who had executed at least fifty persons, all in a very messy and imaginative way.

"New concept, my foot!" the Orc exclaimed, banging on the table with his fist. "It is doomed to failure!"

"Damn it, Gogron!" barked M'raaj-Dar as the chess pieces flew into the air. "How many times I have told you not to do that when I am playing chess!"

"The Listener already opened one in the Imperial City a few weeks ago, and it is already a great success." Arius replied to the Orc while helping M'raaj-Dar to pick up the chess pieces scattered on the floor. "In addition, Speaker Lachance thought having a restaurant rather than an abandoned house above our head was the best cover possible for the Sanctuary."

Gogron shot a very annoyed look at Arius. One had to say that the two assassins had not much in common regarding their philosophy of life and of their job. One drank two kegs of beer for breakfast and wanted to spill as much blood as possible - even if it implied breaking all the furniture - whereas the other sipped his tea with his little finger raised and was extremely careful about wiping his feet on the doormat before murdering the owner of the house.

"I mean, who would like to eat in a place in which they don't serve beer, where you can't fight and where there are at least five different sets of cutlery to eat one single meal?" continued Gogron while keeping glaring at Arius. "And the waiters… Have you seen _the__waiters_?! Gosh…!"

Saying this, the Orc got up and, grabbing a napkin, started mimicking the affected manners of the waiters of the restaurant.

"Is everything to your liking, my lord?" he said in a posh voice. "May I offer you more whine, my looord? Do you want me to lick your boots, my looord?"

The scene was so perfectly grotesque that everybody laughed, including M'raaj-Dar, and even the imperturbable Arius cracked a very thin smile.

"Oh, and could someone take the broomhandle out of my ass, please?" continued Gogron, wiggling his gigantic Orchish butt at his public. "It hurts…"

This time, his companions roared in laugher, and Antoinetta had to grab Teinaava by the arm to prevent him from failing of his chair.

"What's the Oblivion is going on here!?"

All the assassins froze at the sound of the voice, and, slowly, their head turned toward its source. A young woman was standing in the entrance of the corridor which leaded to the bowels of the sanctuary and the least that could be that was that her general appearance stood out with the one of her assassins companions. If they all wore their black leather armour, she was wearing a long and loose-fitting dark green shirt with an equally large skirt, both struggling hard to hide her voluminous pregnant woman's belly.

"Oh, er… Hi Sigrid…!" said Antoinetta, glaring in fear at the apparition.

"Would you mind trying to be less noisy?" Sigrid Trencavel asked sourly. "I feel like the ceiling is going to fell on my head…"

Her last word floated in the air in a deathly silence. The cheerful atmosphere which was prevailing a few seconds ago had suddenly vanished and had been replaced by embarrassment tinged with fear.

The members of the Cheydinhall sanctuary exchanged circumspect glances before turning their attention on Gogron, who was, after all, the source of the mess.

"Yeah, sure. I mean, of course…" The Orc had lost all his loquacity and was now looking very clumsy. "I am sorry, but we were just… You know… Kind of… trying to…er…"

The Orc's voice died as he cowered under the girl's impassive look.

"I see." she finally said. "But from now, please be nice enough to be quieter, because all the noise you are making gives me a bloody headache."

And without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heels and walk away in the corridor.

"Gods! Maternity is not doing her any good." Gogron muttered as he sat back on the bench near Teinaava.

"I heard that, Gogron!" Sigrid yelled from the bowels of the Sanctuary. "And I am still waiting for you to give me a little explanation about your expense account on your last contract!"

"Pawned, dude!" Teinaava giggled while nudging the Orc.

Downstairs, Sigrid made a pout as she closed the door behind her.

"Gosh, do not they have something else to do rather than bursting my eardrums…?" she grumbled.

"_Well, as you __perfectly know, business is not flourishing, even if it is going better than during the Oblivion crisis, so they do not have much to do."_

The voice which had replied her had a very strange tone. It was as if someone with a very bad sore throat was talking into a big metallic box. But the most surprising thing was not the tone of the voice, but who – or rather, _what _– was talking, because the speaker was nothing less than a huge Dwemer sword which was lying on the bed.

"I wish at least _you_ could help me to tidy the place, Clairvoix." Sigrid replied to the sword.

"_I cannot, I do not have arms."_

"You could use magic!"

"_Yes, but I am being lazy."_

The young woman gave a big sigh and looked at the mess. Vicente Valtieri, the former occupier of the room, had accumulated many things over his very long vampiric life, from his amazing and creepy collection of coffin-shaped things to his incredible library. Concerning the latter, she had managed to find the original version of books which were at least two hundred year-old and often had been signed for Vicente by their authors, sometimes with their own blood...

"What are we going to do with all that?" Sigrid asked more or less to herself.

"_If you do not want to keep them, we could try to sell them. They are certainly worth their weight in gold."_

"I bet they are. But putting them back in circulation would probably made people curious and we do not want anybody to get too curious about the books or us…"

She then picked up a big and heavy dark casket she had found in Vicente's cupboard earlier and examined it under all angles. It was made out of ebony inlaid with ivory and was picturing a scene with two Akaviri warriors attacking a dragon. The work realised on the item was of a great delicacy and reminded her of the ring Martin Septim has offered her when he proposed her. Just before he died…

"_Try not to think of Martin, try not to think of Martin…"_

Sigrid bit her lower lips. Months had passed, but the pain was still there. It was not a continuous unbearable ache. Most of the time, it only consisted in a vague and nagging pain, but sometimes, it could wake up suddenly and be as painful as a bad toothache…

She was still lost in her thought when the baby chose to quick her. The girl squeaked in both surprise and pain and the box slipped from her hands to crash on the ground.

"Oh no…" Sigrid said in a little voice, kneeling by the broken box. "No… It is broken!"

"_But what happened?"_ exclaimed Clairvoix.

"It is the baby's fault! He kicked me!"

The sword sighed and wished it had eyes to roll them. The baby – and for some reason, Sigrid had decided it was going to be a boy – had become one of her favourite scapegoat. Every time she was doing something wrong, it was the baby's fault. She forgot about closing the door of the Sanctuary? The baby's fault. Schemer the rat had not been fed while it was her turn to do it? The baby's fault. She broke the box? The baby's fault of course. If the world was on the verge of collapsing, guess whose fault would it be…

But it was nothing compared to the other excuse she liked using at the moment was "I am pregnant, you know…". Right, Clairvoix admitted that the recent events linked to her pregnancy were not good memories, but still… Sigrid nevertheless could have tried to live this rare and beautiful moment as an opportunity to "grow up" and get responsible rather than as an excuse to annoy everybody and be extremely, well… _shitty_. The Sanctuary members had been very patient with her so far, but the sword did not know how long it would last. The assassins thought that as Sigrid would soon enter her ninth month of pregnancy, things would get easier, but Clairvoix was not sharing their optimism.

"I need to find something to stick the pieces together again!" moaned Sigrid as she was trying feverishly to build up again the item. "Do you remember where I put the concentrate of toad's spittle?"

"_Sigrid, nothing can __repair that, even the extremely gluey concentrate of toad's spittle."_

"Are you sure? And what about an alteration spell…?"

"_Oh, hang on… Of course! I__ completely forgot about the awesome Enchantment of Superglueback!"_ said Clairvoix sarcastically. _"It sure would do!"_

There was a pause during which the girl looked at the sword with her eyes full of hope. Apparently, she missed the sarcasm.

"_I was being ironic, Sigrid. There is no such thing as the __Enchantment of Superglueback." _

Sigrid looked a bit destabilized first but she recovered magnificently.

"Oh yeah?" she asked in an unpleasant voice, getting up and shaking a part of the casket at Clairvoix. "Rather than making stupid jokes, you'd better…!"

As she said this, a piece of wood fell from the broken casket on the ground, followed by several papers as well as something heavier. Sigrid looked at the box then at the papers then at the box again. She frowned.

"What the… A secret compartment?"

"_Awesome!"_ exclaimed Clairvoix, sounding suddenly very excited. _"Check out the papers! What are they about?"_

Sigrid kneeled on the ground again and pick up one of the parchment. It was quite old, as shown by its extreme rigidity as well as its yellowed aspect. She started deciphering the spidery crawl writing and turned very red in the face.

"_So__?"_ the sword asked eagerly.

"These are love letters." Sigrid mumbled, hastily putting the letters in a pile. "It is the, er… correspondence between Vicente and my grand-mother Rivanone."

"_O__oooooh… And what does it tell us?"_

"What do you think love letters are about?!" Sigrid exclaimed, looking very annoyed and blushing twice more.

"_I have no idea, I have never received any."_ Clairvoix chuckled.

Sigrid looked Aetheriusyard in annoyance and continued to tidy the papers while trying to find a suitable place to hide all this. But while she was making a neat pile, she spotted something black and cubic on the floor, stuck in between two slabs. Intrigued, Sigrid took it delicately between her fingers and put it on the palm of her hand.

It was a cube. Actually, it really looked like a big dice. It had small dots on each of its side but their shape was rather… unusual for a dice. Those dots were shaped like little skulls, daggers, half-moons, hands and some geometrical forms which looked like pentacles and spirals.

"_Ooooh, incredible! A datadice!" _

Sigrid blinked and turned toward Clairvoix.

"I beg your pardon?"

"_It is a da__-ta-dice!"_ the sword repeated, detaching every syllable as if talking to a child. _"A powerful magical artefact used by the Black Hand to store information!"_

Sigrid was glaring at Clairvoix, completely dumbfounded. The sword sighed.

"_You have never __wondered how the Brotherhood was keeping track of its records?"_

"Well… Yes, I have." she replied, scratching her chin. "But I thought there were some special archives hidden somewhere, where all reports written in codes where stored…"

"_There are archives indeed but no paper records. Paper is dangerous: it can burn, get wet and so on. As for written codes, they can be easily broken. But magic codes are different ball games…"_

Sigrid bit her lower lips and her eyes narrowed as she continued to examine the odd object.

"Do you have any idea how it ended up here?"

"_Nope." _Clairvoix replied._ "But it is contrary to all the Dark Brotherhood rules I know. All the datadices should only be consulted in the archives and must stay there…"_

"So… You think Vicente stole it…?" she asked in a small voice.

"_Yep, I do_."

There was a pause during which the sword saw Sigrid's face getting slowly distraught, before turning into a complete mask of repulsion.

"Ah no. No, no, no and no!" exclaimed Sigrid, throwing the cube on the bed as if it had burned her fingers. It landed on the matress where it bounced a few time. "Not again!"

"_But… What's wrong?"_ asked Clairvoix, bemused.

"I see it coming…" Sigrid started gloomily. "'Oh, look! A magical artefact with great power that should not be here!'" said the girl in a mocking high pitch voice. "And you know what happens when you found such kind of thing?"

"_Er, no?"_

"Well, you end up being chased by a dark entity looking after it because it needs it to take over the world, and…!"

"_Sigrid, Sigrid…"_ the sword kindly interrupted her. _"Don't you think you are overreacting a bit? It is just a cube used to store information, nothing more!"_

"You remember the hourglass, Umbra and the Ankou?" she growled, and Clairvoix had a small embarrassed cough. Oh yes, the sword remembered perfectly well…

"_Yes, er… Right, but this is completely different!__ Datadices are nothing more than something to store information."_

Still making a disgusted pout, Sigrid looked closely at the black cube. She could see her face reflecting onto its dark and smooth surface, and that was all. Nothing was indicating that the cube was being hunted by dark forces looking for taking over Nirn. She took a deep breath and then turned toward Clairvoix.

"You swear I am not going to be forced to save the world if I keep that thing, all right?"

The sword sighed inwardly. It was used to Sigrid's irrational behaviour. After all, before being trapped in the sword, Clairvoix - or rather Aymard Clairvaux as he was called at that time - had spent quite a lot of time in the girl's mind. But after what happened during the Oblivion crisis, the girl's attitude has become even more erratic.

"_Yeah, yeah… I swear. __No dark evil entity, no world to save. Happy?"_

The girl made a dubitative face but nevertheless took the cube back in her hands.

"And you said it contains data?" she asked, while giving the cube a flick.

"_Yes. __And to tell the truth, I am very curious to find out what it contains and why Vicente kept it here…"_

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door and Sigrid was so surprised the datadice almost slipped between her fingers. She caught it at the last second, and instinctively hid it under her shirt when the doors of her room opened.

"_Is it really clever to hide it under your shirt?" _Clairvoix asked_. "Someone may wonder what a cubic stuff doing here…"_

"_My belly is so big no one is going to pay attention to another excrescence." _Sigrid replied.

The two has instinctively moved into mental talking mode. Even if Clairvoix was not trapped in Sigrid's mind anymore, it was as if their spirits had stayed tuned and the telepathic way of communication could reveal to be handy, especially when they did not want to be overheard…

Sigrid just finished hiding the cube when a well known dark hooded figure stepped in. At the sight, her eyes narrowed in annoyance and her lips curled in a grimace of sheer aversion.

"Greetings, Sigrid." said Lucien Lachance, removing his hood and passing a hand in his hair to make sure no streak had escaped from his neat and clean ponytail. This little gesture had the special talent for getting on the girl's nerves.

"_Look at him…"_ she thought. _"He always acts as if he is performing…Well, your little show does not have any effects on me anymore, Mister Smooth Talker!"_

"Speaker Lachance." Sigrid said aloud with a dry move of the chin toward the doors of her room. "Knocking on the doors before entering is not optional, you know…"

Lucien decided not to notice her aggressiveness and walked toward the bed to greet Clairvoix.

"Good evening to you as well, Clairvoix." he said with an elegant move of his chin toward the sword.

"_N__ice to see you, Lucien."_ the latter replied.

Lucien stood up there, waiting for Sigrid to invite him to take a sit, but she turned her back to him and got back sitting at her desk. She then took a quill and started to write. Lucien craned his neck to see what she was working on, and he made a face when he realised it was accountancy.

"What can I do for you, Speaker?" Sigrid finally asked in a casual tone.

"Oh well, I am just here to see if everything is fine…"

"Everything is fine." Her tone was as sharp as the edge of a razor.

"Good… And, er… Is Belisarius Arius adapting well to his new family?"

"Your new Silencer is doing very well, Speaker." she carried on in her unconcerned tone. "Except that he and Gogron have an 'alpha male' contest, but I have good hopes things will get better soon."

Since she had sat at her desk, she had not looked at him, even once. Lucien realised how amazingly tensed things were between them, whatever insignificant the subject was. And there was no doubt the next one would incense Trencavel even more…

"Good, good…" Lucien replied hastily, scratching the back of his neck "So…Apart from that… How are you doing?"

Sigrid raised her head from her paper and shot him a dark and weary look. It seemed that by asking that, Lucien had insulted her very badly.

"I am fine, thanks for asking." she said in a tone which meant the conversation on the subject was over before focusing on her writings again.

There was a pause and Lucien raised an eyebrow. It was clear he was not convinced.

"You know, it is not really healthy to spend all day and night locked in the Sanctuary…" he started.

"With all due respect, that is my business, Speaker." Sigrid interrupted him curtly.

"And it is _my_ business as well to make sure the members of my sanctuary are in good physical and mental health. Everybody worries about you, you know."

"You did not seem to mind that first... I had to beg you to accept me to get out of here from times to times!"

Lucien tried not to roll his eyes in annoyance. He had sworn to J'Ghasta he would not loose his temper this time, but his determination was getting eroded by her scornful attitude.

"It was for security reasons at that time." he said patiently. "You may have risked to be recognised, and that we really could not afford that. But now, no one would be able to identify you as Sigrid Trencavel as you look…"

Lucien stopped, looking for the right word. But his hesitation did not stay unnoticed. Sigrid finally put down her quills and looked at him. One could have roasted meat on her glare.

"As I look like _what_, Speaker?" she asked aggressively.

Lucien made an inward face as he scrutinized her. When Lucien had met Trencavel the first time, he found she was pretty. Not awesome, not your kind of classical beauty… No, just…pretty… If only she could have stopped sulking and had eaten a bit more. But now…

Despite the fact she had put a bit on weight because of her pregnancy,her face was hollow, with big dark rings under the eyes. She had let her hair grow, a rather unwise change because it highlighted her washed out look, and her hair colour, which had been once dark and shiny, was now all dull. But it was nothing compared to her complexion… Her skin was so waxen that all was missing was a wick to light her up, and the only thing that might have been able to save her general appearance – her green eyes – were full of disenchantment and resignation.

"_Who want to know what__ you look like, Sigrid?"_ thought Lucien. _"Like all those matronly women who married to young and who, after having given birth to a dozen of children, spent their days wearing a grimy negligee and worn slippers while their husband goes gallivanting."_

Lucien really wished he could tell her that – maybe it would shake her a bit and made her realised how sloppy she had become – but again, he remembered he had to stay calm, so he decided to opt for a more diplomatic answer.

"Well, you look more…_mature _than before."

There was another pause and the little metaphorical chill in the air showed Lucien his attempt at being diplomatic had failed. To confirm his impression, Sigrid shot him a long and dark look.

"Oh, fine…" she finally grumbled between her teeth.

She stood up, took her cape which was lying on a chair and put it on her shoulders.

"But… what are you doing?" he asked, puzzled, as she passed by him.

"I am going to get my maturity out in the fresh air." she replied from the corridor leading to the main hall. Lucien took a deep breath, unsuccessfully trying to calm down, and followed her. He caught her in the main hall where all the members of the sanctuary had gathered.

"Sigrid…" he started, grabbing her by the arm.

"Release me immediately! And by Sithis, stop calling me Sigrid! My name is Trencavel, all right!?"

Lucien's face became very cold and he released his grip on her arm, while his aquiline nose frowned slightly in anger.

"I am sorry if I have been impolite, _Sister Trencavel_. But as you are now a valuable member of the Dark Brotherhood and as we have known each other for a long time, I thought you would not mind."

Sigrid's pale lips turned up in a smile that would have made a shark green with envy.

"Without forgetting that having murdered me create special emotional bonds, hey?"

At the words, a very heavy and embarrassed silence fell on the assembly. Lucien was perfectly conscious that all the members of the Sanctuary were listening to their argument – even if they were all trying to act as they weren't – and it was making him feeling ill-at-ease. Everybody was well aware of the part he played in defeating the Ankou and killing Sigrid in the process, but it was the first time since it happened the two main protagonists were talking about it openly and the Speaker really did not feel like washing his dirty linen in public.

"We already had this discussion…" Lucien started between gritted teeth.

"No, we had not!" she spat. "You just said you were proud to do what you did! That's all!"

"Oooooh, is it why you are upset? Because I did not apologise for something I do not regret anyway?"

She growled and took a few steps forward. Lucien retreated a bit, but she caught him and put her nose right under his.

"So you want to know I can't stand your presence anymore?" she asked, taping with her forefinger on his chest.

"Yes." he replied coolly. "Go ahead. I feel like it is going to be interesting…"

"You are here, alive and well... Why? Why didn't I manage to save _them_, like I did for you?"

There was a sudden chill in the room. Everyone knew too well to whom "them" referred to. The names of Vicente Valtieri and Martin Septim were not pronounced but it was as if they were written in fire letters in the air. Lucien

"If I understood you well, you want to know why Septim and Vicente are dead while I am still alive?" Lucien asked very calmly.

Sigrid did not reply, but it was clear she was making great effort not to jump at his throat.

"Concerning Septim, the answer is very easy. I simply am better than he was."

At the words, the girl's jaw dropped. Apparently, she was not expecting such kind of answer. But soon, surprise was overcome by pure hatred and anger.

"Don't you _dare_…" she hissed menacingly. Her hand had slowly moved toward Clairvoix' handle, and behind her, the assassins started to exchange worried looks. "Martin was a hundred times better than you!"

"Really? Have you heard of natural selection?" Lucien continued, apparently unperturbed. "Martin died because he was not fitting..! Seriously, have you seen him, always acting selflessly, so happy to sacrifice himself for his people and the ones he loved..." While saying this, the Speaker had taken a silly and sweet voice. "Why do you think Princes Charming like him have become extinct specie...?"

"_How dared you…?!_"

"Truth is painful to hear, isn't it?" Lucien asked gleefully. The hurt and incensed look on Sigrid's face was delighting him to the most extreme.

"The only painful thing here is the stupidity of your reasoning!" she barked. "And what about Vicente, hey!? Did he die because of natural selection as well?!"

"Vicente died because he placed _your_ insignificant existence above _his_! If you had not been there, if you had not been acting as a fool, he would be still alive!"

"Why not simply accuse me to have pushed him over the parapet!" she screamed.

Now, the two of them were yelling at the top of their voices, and the other members of the Sanctuary were now whispering. They were used to Sigrid and Lucien's arguments, but this time, it seemed more serious than usual and so they were getting organised to intervene if things were about to take a turn for the worst.

"Is this what you want to hear?!" Lucien shouted. "All right! Vicente died because of _you_! Happy now?!"

Lucien took a few steps backwards as he recovered his breath. At the words, Sigrid's already extremely pale face suddenly looked as if blood and life had definitely left her. Then, slowly, her eyes watered and her lower lip started to shake. A pinch of sympathy rose in Lucien's chest, quickly hushed by the cruel pleasure of hurting her.

"And you know what, Sigrid?" the Speaker carried on with a sadistic satisfaction. "I also wonder why our Dread Father has decided to bring _you_back rather than Vicente. I have lost a very good assassin and a friend. You, on the other hand…" He had a malicious laugh. "If Prince Charming had not gotten you pregnant, you would still be dea…"

Despite the fact Sigrid was heavily pregnant and had not fight in quite a while, she had managed to remain relatively supple and fast, which explain why Lucien did not see anything coming. In a very nice and dramatic slow motion, she hit him right in the crotch.

Lucien did not scream. Rather, he slowly huddled up and tears appeared in his eyes. He was convulsively biting his lower lips in an effort not to yell, but the little grunts he was uttering clearly showed he was in agony. He tried to take a few steps but his legs were shaking. He finally kneeled on the ground, clutching his harmed virility, tears of pain now running down openly his cheeks.

"Oh man…" said Gogron in a squeaky voice.

All the members of the sanctuary looked like a living painting. Teinaava had let fall his book on the floor in shock. Antoinetta had covered her face with her hands and was looking at the scene through her fingers and M'raaj-Dar's jaw had dropped. As for Belisarius Arius, his face was as imperturbable as ever, the only thing translating his uneasiness was the way he was drumming his fingers on the table.

Sigrid was towering over Lucien, looking both horrified at what she had just done and out of breath. She gulped, and recovering her composure, she bent toward him.

"Talking about natural selection and reproduction," she whispered malevolently in Lucien's ear, "I hope I just did not compromise your chances to beget a numerous descendants…"

And she turned on her heels and crossed the door of the Sanctuary, shutting it loudly behind her.

**1**. A recurrent element in the dimensions of the Multiverse. Wherever you are, you always will find books written by helpful but irritating people who will explain you how to be a good parent and why you will inevitably fail and see your kid turning into a stupid and ungrateful monster during his or her teens.


	3. Old memories

**Chapter 2**

**Dear Gods, I **_**swear**_** I won't right chapters that long anymore!**

**I thought I would never be able to see the end of ****it…O.o As a result, it has some kind of "unfinished business" taste, but I really had to post it now, otherwise, it would have taken even more weeks before I could have found time to work on it properly…**

**The Vampire Apple beta-tested it, so if it sucks, it is her fault ! XD **

**Well, hopefully, there will be more action and fun in the next chapter. I just hope you are not seasick… :P**

**Oh, b****y the way, I have just realised the roof of the Council of the Elder's room was a stone coffered ceiling very similar to the one which can be find in the Pantheon in Roma. And a friend of mine made an interesting parallel between Sigrid and Joan of Arc…:D**

**As usual, suggestions are very welcome. **

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The sun had set long ago on Bravil, the shanty town of Cyrodiil, one of the most decrepit cities of Tamriel…

There was not much to see around, apart from Skooma dealers and cunning beggars, and the only sound attraction of the place was the statute of the Old Lady, which was said to bring luck to anyone who kissed it.

If people knew the stature was in fact a monument in the Night Mother's glory, and that, under it, was hiding her crypt, they would certainly not be as enthusiastic to kiss it, especially now the Unholy Matron seemed to be particularly enraged…

"I knew it!" spat her voice, echoing between the walls in the crypt. "I _knew_ it! The situation is a complete mess again because of her!"

"_Don't you think you are over dramatising a bit_?"

They said the Night Mother's voice had the ability to freeze people life in their veins. But the second voice was literally sucking it out…

"No! I am not!" the Night Mother spat. "And why didn't you tell me Trencavel was gone?! Am I not supposed to know every which is happening in the Dark Brotherhood?!"

Sithis, also know as the Dread Father or the Void did not feel necessary to reply, and this incensed the Night Mother even more.

"Trencavel is a source of problems! I told you bringing her back from the dead was _not_ a good idea…" She sighed. "But I should not be surprised as it seems to run in the family... Her grandmother Rivanone was a pain in the neck as well, but at least she was a great leader and an extremely talented assassin."

"_Yes, I agree. Trencavel is a problem. But strangely enough, she is also part of the solution…" _chuckled the Dread Father.

"And you find this funny?" the Night Mother asked, sounding quite shocked.

"_Funny? No. But very entertaining at least…"_ the Void corrected her. _"You know, being omniscient can be so tedious and boring."_

The Night Mother walked toward the stone on which her decayed bones where lying and sat on it.

"And now? What are we going to do?"

"_Nothing for the moment, because there is nothing we can do." _

The Void twirled a bit and the Night Mother perceived something like excitement.

"_The Eternal Champion is back and once again, the destiny of the Multiverse is in his hands."_

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"Would you like some more tea, Lady Trencavel?"

Sigrid wriggled on her chair and looked down at her cup of herbal tea then up at Scribonius' beaming face then back at her cup again.

The old necromancer was always extremely happy to welcome visitors, and Sigrid was treated like a queen every time she came to see him. She was not sure if this was due to the fact Scribonius had a soft spot on her or if because she was the owner of the sword which sheltered the soul of Aymard Clairvaux, one of the greatest necromancer in history and one of Scribonius' reference in the Dark Arts.

Talking about Clairvoix, the sword was currently standing on a purple velvet cushion on the table. To Clairvoix' greatest pleasure, Scribonius was particularly deferent toward him, calling him "my lord", "your highness". The sword even had a smoking cup of herbal tea and a slice of cake in a plate next to his cushion.

Ah, Scribonius'cakes… The necromancer tried to cook a new kind of cake each day, and today, he had made them gingerbread, probably spicy enough to wake up the dead - literally speaking… But Sigrid had to admit the old man had improved his cooking abilities a lot over the months. She just wished he washed his hands well before baking the cake…

She sipped a bit of her tea and was about to reply to Scribonius when she felt something humid and hot rubbing against her calf. She froze and glared right in front of her, horror painting all over her face. Given the fact she was having tea at a necromancer's place, the stuff hiding under her skirt could be _anything_…

"Oh nonono, bad Chewie!" Scribonius said merrily while bending forward and shaking a finger at something on the ground. "How many times I have told you begging for food is bad…?"

Trying to ignore the shudder which was running along her spine, Sigrid looked down and ultimately found the courage to lift up her skirt a bit. Her hair stood out on the end.

The thing called Chewie, which looked like an alive but shapeless puddle of tar, had stop rubbing against her leg and was now sucking the tip of her shoe with great enthusiasm. It stopped and cowered when it realised Sigrid was glaring at it.

"Is that… a Dark Chewer?" she asked in a feeble voice.

"Yes! Yes, it is!" exclaimed Scribonius, clapping his hands happily. "Well done, Lady Trencavel! Everyone is not able to recognise one…!"

Sigrid did her best not to roll her eyes. As if she could have forgotten about Dark Chewers. The last one she met ate most of the battle mage commando sent by the Arcane University to arrest her, and the picture of a yelling mage being thrown by a tentacle in an black and gaping mouth full of sharp teeth was definitely likely to be stuck in her mind for a while…

"Oh, stop that Chewie!" the necromancer continued as the Dark Chewer timidly started to chew Sigrid's shoe again. "Go to your basket now! Shoo!"

Chewie demonstrated his displeasure by changing of shapes several times while producing a series of weird bubbling protesting noises. He then crawled toward his basket full of black fluffy cushions and Sigrid's face twitched a bit when her eyes fall onto the small bones and smiling skulls embroidered on Chewie's cushions

The Dark Chewer slipped in his basket and stretched a bit. Then, again, is elastic body took different shape again, looking successively like a kettle, a broom, a small dog and a pair of pants before he curled in his basket.

"They can change their shape?" Sigrid asked, fascination taking over repulsion and horror.

"Oh yes, they can, but only when they are young." explained the necromancer. "As they grow up, their shape stabilised until they find a place – usually a big dark room – where they will settle for the rest of their life."

"And… They can take all the forms they want?"

"I am afraid they can't…" said Scribonius, who had moved toward the basket and gently was putting a blanket over Chewie to keep him warm. "They have to eat something to be able to take its form. But I try to prevent him from doing that. You see, his baby teeth are not that sharp. He has to swallow without chewing most of what he eats, and that can give him bad tummy aches."

"Baby teeth…" Sigrid grumbled, looking at the leather of her shoe covered in deep scratches and thinking about the different shapes Chewie took. She wondered if Scribonius' neighbours had any suspicions on Scribonius concerning the disappearance of their beloved pet dog…

After the attack of the Arcane University against his "cottage-lair" in the Imperial City, the necromancer stayed a while in the Cheydinhall Sanctuary in order to make oneself forgotten. This situation lasted a few weeks until Lucien Lachance got fed up with him teaching alchemy tricks to Antoinetta Marie, resulting in blowing up parts of the sanctuary twice more often than usual and decided that, for everyone safety and peace of mind, Scribonius was safe now and could leave without being bothered. But the Speaker of Cheydinhal was magnanimous and, before kicking him out, he found Scribonius a place to stay.

And this is how the necromancer settled near the small hamlet of Harlun's Watch, where he received a warm welcome, his neighbours considering him as an old inoffensive man who had decided to retire away from the tiring and noisy life of cities. If they knew he was a terribly powerful necromancer who had escaped the purge organised by the late Archmage Hannibal Traven and was spending his days breeding dangerous undead creatures, the cottage would be soon surrounded by an angry mob of peasants armed with the inevitable torches and pitchforks.

But you could never turn into a reasonably aged necromancer if you did not have the ability to blend in with normal people, and Master Scribonius – who was reasonably old – perfectly understood the main principle of camouflage. Indeed, to him, it was not so much about what people actually saw rather than what they _really_ wanted to see… And who on Nirn would imagine that a powerful necromancer preferred leaving in a small pink cottage rather than in a gloomy and clammy cave?

"So, what own me the pleasure of your visit this time, Lady Trencavel?" Scribonius asked as he sat at the table and helped himself with herbal tea.

Sigrid blinked and looked a bit confused. Lost in her thought, she had not heard the necromancer's question but his insistent glance mad her think he wanted to know more about the motives of her visit.

"Er… Well, your… science in the Dark Arts is needed, Master Scribonius." The girl wriggled on her chair again, trying to work out a way to formulate her request. "Do… do you remember, a few weeks ago, you lent me a book called 'Necromancy: a Comprehensive History', and I…"

"A master piece, if I may say!" the old man interrupted her. "Did you like it?"

"Yes, er…I really did, and… Well… Something is mentioned in the book. A mystic science called…'Foodoo'. I would like to know if you had more information on the subject."

Sigrid gritted her teeth and hold her breath. The subject was tossed.

But Scribonius did not seem particularly surprised or intrigued. He did not reply immediately and gave her a bright smile before he got up and walked toward what looked like a small cup board livened up on the top with what looked like an ear trumpet and tray installed on a rotary axle. On the side of the piece of furniture was a golden handle.

The old man bend forward the trumpet and start talking into it.

"Hellooo? Cicero? Can you here me? I need your help…"

There was a silence first. Then a_ wheezwheez _noise came from the ear trumpet as if a muffled voice was coming out of it.

"Yes, yes, I know it is cold down there, Cicero. But you know we can't install fires in the library for security reasons…!"

Sigrid rolled her eyes. Ah yes, Cicero… Another essential element in Scribonius' Court of Undead Miracles. He was the Master Librarian of the necromancer's huge library in the labyrinthine network of galleries and rooms hiding deep under the cottage. The girl had met him once – or rather, met his hands. They were the only visible features of the… man, the rest being shrouded in darkness, and Sigrid was not even sure there was actually a "rest"…

"_Hey, __why didn't you ask me about Foodoo?" _whispered Clairvoix while Scribonius was still busy talking with Cicero. The sword clearly sounded offended.

"Er…I just… kind of… forgot, sorry."

Clairvoix started to glow red – a sign it was extremely annoyed.

"_And in addition of lying to me, you are taking me for a fool…_"

"Of course I am not!" Sigrid exclaimed, trying to sound genuinely sincere.

If the sword had eyes, it would have shot the girl a "oh really?" look, but as it hadn't, it contented itself with a reproachful silence and its red glow.

In the meantime, Scribonius had put an end to his argument with Cicero and was now turning quickly the handle of the cupboard. The movement made tray engraved with magical pentacles turned on the axle. There was a flash of light, and, in a spray of colourful sparks, a pile of books materialised on the tray.

"Thank you, Cicero." Scribonius said in the ear trumpet. He then took the books and walked toward the table.

"Foodoo, also spelled 'Faudou', 'Fodou' or 'Fodoun'." he said while putting the heavy pile of books on the table. The cups of tea rattled about in their saucer and the noise woke up Chewie, who peered over his basket to see what was happening. "The Old Arts, as they call it in Elseweyr… So… What do you exactly want to know about Foodoo?"

"Well..." Sigrid started, glaring at the very thick books – so thick she could have knocked off an Orc with them without difficulty. "I just wanted to know if Foodoo was a completely different art from Necromancy, or if it was just a foreign name given to it…"

"Aaah, this is a vast question!" the old man said as he installed himself comfortably in his armchair and helped himself with a piece of gingerbread. "As you may have read in 'Necromancy: a Comprehensive History', Foodoo and Necromancy have common points but nevertheless remain quite different from one another…" Scribonius explained. "Actually, the most widespread theory among scholars is that Necromancy is originated from Foodoo, as shown by the most recent studies – which are several centuries old."

Sigrid frowned.

"But… If Necromancy comes from Foodoo… In what the two arts differ exactly?"

"Oh, but in nature, means and objectives!" Scribonius exclaimed happily, clapping his hands on his knees. "You see, Foodoo is a very ancient religion and art, and if I may say, very 'primitive' - if not archaic." The necromancer made a pause and sniffed with despises. "It is entirely based on the forces of Nature and its main goal is to serve and to win the support of the spirits which animate it: the _Iwas_."

"The Iwas…" Sigrid repeated slowly. "That sounds very exotic…"

Scribonius smiled at the girl's remark.

"Not that much actually, my dear… These 'Gods' share many attributes with the Daedric Princes, even with the Nine, which makes me think the Iwas are only another name given to these deities. But sorry, I am digressing… Necromancy, as opposed to Foodoo, is not a religion but an art exclusively based on rationality." Scribonius' tirade suddenly tinged with lyrical hints. He got up, and, with one hand resting on his hip, he rose the second toward the ceiling. "There is no room for believes and superstitions in our sublime theories and experience! We, necromancers, are not looking to satisfy some kind of capricious divinities, no! Our noble aim is to free the human race from the contingency of their mortal condition…"

"… by enslaving the dead." Sigrid ended. She then bitted her lips, fearing she may have vexed the necromancer.

"Yes." Scribonius replied, more amused than annoyed as he sat back. "And, you see, this is this relationship toward the dead which mainly differentiates Necromancy and Foodoo."

Under the table, Sigrid's hands clenched nervously on her knees.

"_Here we go…"_ she thought. "_All my hopes are at stake now. Either he confirms them or my next option will be to throw myself in Lake Rumare."_

"'Foodoo' as a discipline covers many more fields than Necromancy." the necromancer carried on, unaware of Sigrid' nervousness. "Hence, the Old Arts had a more comprehensive knowledge of the vital force, the Mana which animates each and every living being in our universe… Oh, like in Necromancy, they had the ability to canalise Mana to reanimate dead bodies and create slave zombies – after all, zombie is a term borrowed directly from Foodoo. But some also said they had the real ability to…" The necromancer made a pause to save suspense. Then, in a breath, he finished his sentence. "…to _resurrect_people."

_Resurrect_… The word floated in the air and Sigrid had to her best not to jump around clapping her hands out of joy like a little girl.

"Excuse me Master Scribonius, but I want that to be clear…" she said slowly, trying to control the excitement in her voice. "By resurrecting, do you mean bringing people back to life?"

"Of course! What else?"

The girl digested the information but frowned as she remembered something.

"But… Wasn't Mannimarco's Staff of Worms supposed to do that as well?"

The necromancer chewed a bit of gingerbread, looking thoughtful.

"No, not really…" he finally replied, making a pout. "The Staff was able to _reanimate_ dead things, not to _resurrect_ them. The difference is capital, you see. Reanimation consists in canalising the Mana – _any kind_ of Mana – into a dead body, while resurrection is the art of bringing back the very part of Mana which was animating the body before its death. Er, if you did not understand me, it t doesn't matter…" he added with a nervous smile as Sigrid glared at him.

"No no no, I think I got it!" the girl said thoughtfully, biting her lower lip. "Reanimation fuels corpses with general Mana, while resurrection can bring back the… the soul of the dead!"

The old necromancer squeaked in joy.

"Exactly! Ah, but we could make a great necromancer out of you, Lady Trencavel! Well, a few years after Lord Mannimarco got banned by the Psijic Order, he made some research on resurrection, and the least that can be said is his first attempts at it were not very successful. I was told once the very first Staff of Worms created by our lord turned corpses into little bad breathed cookies…"

Sigrid opened her eyes wide in amazement.

"It turned them into _what_?"

"Don't ask…" Scribonius said, smiling. "Our friend here could tell us more about it…" he added, looking at Clairvoix who was still pouting. "But after several fruitless trials, our lord considered that trying to resurrect things was foolish and decided that reanimation was the right path to follow for any self-respecting necromancer."

"Foodoo is not that primitive then, if its practitioners have managed to realise something the great Mannimarco did not…" Sigrid said ironically. "What a powerful science Foodoo seems to be…"

Scribonius shrugged and helped himself with more gingerbread. Chewie, who had left his basket, was now standing at the necromancer feet, apparently

"As I told you, resurrection was not our lord's goal." he replied as he crumbled some gingerbread on the floor for Chewie. "As for Foodoo's superiority, in addition to the fact I believe we will probably never know. The Foodoo rituals, which were prominent in the Early Merethic Era, have declined suddenly and finally disappeared …"

Sigrid's heart stopped at the words. In less than a dozen of seconds, a few words had managed to ruin all the plans she carefully had put together for weeks. Her throat was so constricted she had difficulty to breath and a whitish could was starting to fog her eyesight.

"_But_ a few practitioners may still live somewhere near Senchal, in the Tenmar Forest." the old necromancer continued, ignoring Sigrid was about to pass out. "The books I have brought you mention the existence of small communities in the South of Elseweyr, near Senchal, where Foodoo might still be practised. But apparently nobody checked out – are you all right lady Trencavel?" he asked when he finally realised Sigrid was on the verge of fainting. She had grabbed the edges of the table and was looking extremely pale.

"I am…all right." she mumbled as Scribonius helped her to sit back up. "Just one of those feeling of faintness pregnant women experience sometimes." she lied as she did not want to dwell on the reason of her unrest.

"Another cup of tea would do you some well." the necromancer said while patting her hand gently.

"So, er… You were saying there were still a few Foodoo communities around Senchal…?" Sigrid asked as the necromancer was preparing her another cup of tea.

"Yes, and more precisely in the Tenmar forest."

Sigrid's jaw dropped.

"Tenmar? That huge vegetal mess which covers most of Elsweyr!" she exclaimed. "How am I going to find something there? It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack!"

There was a pause. Scribonius was looking at her, completely taken aback and still serving her tea in an already full cup which was now overflowing. Sigrid resisted the urge to facepalm.

"_What__ did you say!?"_ barked Clairvoix.

"This is not the moment to make me a scene, Clairvoix…" Sigrid said between her gritted teeth.

The red aura of the sword intensified so much that, for a moment, Sigrid thought it was about to fire her a spell. But finally, the intensity of the glow decreased, even if Clairvoix' animosity was almost palpable.

"Excuse me, Lady Trencavel, but… You are intending to go there?" the necromancer asked. His eyes fell upon her big and perfectly round belly. "_In your current condition?_"

"I am not bedridden yet, thank you!" the girl replied rather curtly.

There was another long pause during which Scribonius looked at Sigrid. Feeling rather ill-at-ease, she tried not to shift or gulp under the old man's blue piercing glare. She had never been good at hiding her feelings and there was no doubt Scribonius was reading her like an open book.

"I know it is not my business…" the necromancer finally said in a soft, almost kind voice. "But I have to warn you, lady Trencavel, that you may experience a great disappointment. No one can truly hope resurrecting people. This ability is the exclusive attribute of extremely powerful entities - as you may know for having experienced it yourself..."

Sigrid tensed up at the words. She hated being remembered her little stay in the Void.

"Thank you for your concern, Master Scribonius." she replied resolutely. "You know, I have come here because I need you to confirm me some information, but… I made my decision well before that. There is no stopping me."

Scribonius considered her sadly and sighed.

"Well, in that case, I guess all I can do know is wishing you luck – and believe me, you will need it! But tell me… What I am supposed to say if _they_come here? Because I doubt they have given their approval for your expedition…"

"If by 'them' you mean the Dark Brotherhood, tell them everything." Sigrid shrugged. "You have been very good to me Master Scribonius. I really don't want to involve you into my problems."

Saying this, she got up from her chair and gave the necromancer a resounding kiss right on the forehead.

"Ah, er, all right then…" mumbled Scribonius, as red as the fabric of his robe. "Let me prepare you some gingerbread to take along with you, as well as another bag..."

Sigrid raised an eyebrow.

"Another bag? Why?"

Scribonius had an embarrassed smile.

"Because I think Chewie just ate yours."

7777777777777777777

It was a clear night, with the two moons Masser and Secunda illuminating the rich and fertile lands of the West Weald region. These kinds of nights were definitely the wrong ones for assassins, but the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood did not mind. He was striding along the streets of the city of Skingrad, walking with a springy step and humming a song to himself, despite the bad news he had received earlier… But J'Ghasta was a great optimistic and as long as he was alive, everything was fine.

He stopped near by a building, one of those big townhouses which composed most of the real estate of Skingrad. This one did not seem to have anything special compared to the other, except for the expert nose of the Listener. This building had a particular smell, and the Listener liked it very much, as it was the smell of a well done job…

J'Ghasta carefully checked the surrounding before walking toward the door of the building and silently slipping in.

The interior of the building was entirely illuminated, but there were no signs of life - to J'Ghasta's greatest satisfaction.

He started to climb the stairs with the grace of the feline he was until he reached the first floor. He then took a few steps on the mezzanine and raised an eyebrow at the carpet soaked in blood…

"Good evening, honourable Listener!" a voice asked behind him.

J'Ghasta turned around quickly, swearing under his breath. He hated being caught by surprise, especially by one of his assassins wearing a pink apron and a matching feather duster… He blinked twice at the sight, and then rolled his eyes.

"Silencer Belisarius Arius, I think we already had that small conversation about playing the cleaning lady while performing your duties for the Brotherhood…"

"I do apologise, Honourable Listener, but the place is so dirty..." Arius said in his very polite tone. "I felt like I had the time for a bit of cleaning before I leave."

The Khajiit looked around. The place was indeed rather dirty, but not so much because of dust rather than of blood and dismembered corpses. His eyes narrowed when he noticed there were actually more dead corpses than initially planned…

"If I remember well, the old servant and the kids were not among the targets." the Listener pointed out. "Nor was the golden fish…" he added when he spotted something floating touchingly on the back in a dirty aquarium.

"The fish was already swimming with his ancestors in the Waters of the Great Celestial Fishbowl when we started to work." replied Arius as he caught the Listener's glance. "As for the others, Speaker Lachance presented them as a… 'little extra'."

"'Little extra' for which we have _not_ been _paid_, if I may say…" the Khajiit said reproachfully. "And a professional like you should know this kind of things can spoil a contract!"

"Yes, Honourable Listener. But I am pretty sure our Dread Father enjoyed it." The Silencer's eyes started to gleam in admiration. "Speaker Lachance did such a great job…! You should have seen him working: his blades cutting the air, slicing through the flesh, blood spurting and describing nice curve in the air before spreading on the floor…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I have trained him and with him, so I am well aware of what he is capable of…" J'Ghasta growled impatiently. "And talking about your Speaker, where is he?" he added, looking around the room. "And since when he is accompanying his Silencer on missions?"

Arius had a little cough and something like embarrassment appeared on his usually perfectly composed face.

"Well… After what happened in the Sanctuary the other day with Lady Trencavel, he looked like he needed a bit of distraction, so when he gave me my mission, I asked him if he wanted to come with me…"

"Ooooh, he wanted distraction, hey?" J'Ghasta asked sarcastically. "And where is he _now_?"

"He told me he would wait for me at the pub in Carnagie Street."

J'Ghasta frowned.

"But there is no pub in Carnagie Street!"

"I beg you pardon, Honourable Listener." Arius replied humbly. "I don't know the city of Skingrad really well, but I am sure I saw it on our way here."

"Good! You are going to show me where it is then!"

"Er… Honourable Listener, would you mind if I…?"

Arius made J'Ghasta a big smile and made a little movement with his duster. His smile faded a bit when he caught the Khajiit's glance.

"The cleaning can wait." J'Ghasta said in a tone which was meaning another mention of anything related to house cleaning would deserve someone a good hiding. "Go ahead – and don't forget to take your apron off! Why on Nirn does it have to be_pink_…?!"

Just for the time for Arius to get changes and the two men were out of the building. They walked in silence along the large and clean avenues. They met no one, except a Wood Elf who was looking around timidly and was muttering thinks as "All... All against me… I know! But they will see…!". The two assassins ignore him and finally stopped at the entrance of a small little street.

"There it is, Honourable Listener." said Arius, pointing at a black and sinister door.

And the Silencer was right. There was indeed a pub in Carnegie Street, but J'Ghasta was ready to swear to it was not there a few days ago. The pub was a revolting dive, something technically impossible to find in a city as posh as Skingrad. But, against all odds, Lucien had managed to find it. It was as if it had popped up out of nowhere. At the thought, the Khajiit's ears flatten on his head.

"_Oh no… Not one of those things…"_

A sign was hanging above the door, reading: "Dljknecienrv – – Pub – 9238.09".

Arius read it aloud twice and then frowned.

"But what does it mean, Honourable Listener?"

"It's a pub, it's written on it…"

"Yes, but… what about 'dljknecienrv'? And the rest?"

The Khajiit shrugged.

"I guess it means 'Pub' in other languages – and don't ask me which ones exactly, because I am almost sure they do not exist in our dimension!"

J'Ghasta wished he had the time to explain the concept of "Brigadoons" to Arius, but it was not the place or the time.

Brigadoons… The magic places travelling around the Multiverse and appearing mysteriously at a certain time in given dimensions… They came in many shapes – pubs, shops, haunted castles, temples, but also objects and people… – and they said that if some particular circumstances were gathered, the Brigadoons could turn up if a hero really needed them.

There were many tales mentioning them, not as such of course, but they were full of artefacts or places materialising suddenly and disappearing as quickly. J'Ghasta had bumped into one once, but he had not been as lucky at the heroes of the tales and was still wondering why, while being chased down by a pack of very angry werewolves, he ended up finding a lingerie shop whereas he could have done with a weapons' one…**(1)**

J'Ghasta put his hand on the door and took a deep breath. You knew where you were when entering a Brigadoon, but you were never sure when you would be when exiting it…

"Er… Honourable Listener? I am sorry, but I feel something weird about that place…" Arius whispered as J'Ghasta was about to open the door.

"I know, man, I know… So keep a low profile, avoid making sudden moves and everything shall be fine."

Saying this, the Khajiit pushed the heavy door. It was barely opened a musty smell, with which was mixing a lingering odour of rancid sweat, immediately flooded his nostrils. Taking a last breath of fresh air, he stepped in.

The first thing striking things about the Brigadoon bar were the darkness and the smoke present in the room. They were so thick they almost seemed alive.

The second thing was the customers of the pub. They were small, big, winged, hirsute, with tentacles or scales and few of them actually looked human. As a result, place looked like the crazy laboratory of some insane and completely drunk god of creation. But despite their huge physical differences, all those creatures had one thing in common: they were here because they were too desperate to go anywhere else.

J'Ghasta knew this kind of place very well. The people who came drinking here where not doing it for pleasure but rather for trying to forget everything - from their name to the fact they were terrible losers. And all this was quite enlightening on Lucien's current mood…

"My my, they don't do the cleaning often here…" whispered Arius, who was walking behind the Khajiit. The Silencer then retrieved a small perfumed tissue from his sleeve and putting it under its nose. "Oh by Sithis, what is that thing over there…?" he whispered timidly, pointing at a huge creature looking like a pulpy, tentacled head on a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings. The thing was sitting in a corner of a room and was sipping its beer with a straw.

"Do not point at evil cosmic entities like that, Arius, it is very impolite…" J'Ghasta replied absenmindly.

The Khajiit was busy to try to discern something in this dark smoky place full of… of_stuffs_. Nevertheless, his face lightened up when he finally identified a familiar hooded figure. Grabbing Arius by the arm and clearing a path for himself in the sinister crowd, he walked to the table were Lucien was sitting.

The Speaker was glaring at his beer mug, apparently completely unaware of what was going around him. Next to the ewer was standing the dagger he used to execute the targets of his last contract, and J'Ghasta noticed that, contrary to his habits, Lucien had not taken the time to clean the weapons, not even to change his Black Hand robes which fabric was now all stiffen by dry blood…

"Hello Lucien!" the Khajiit said while collapsing on a stool near him and patting him on the shoulder. "What's up?"

Standing by J'Ghasta's side, Arius started to dust his stool forcefully and frowned a little when he realised a sticky spot stubbornly refused to go.

"Er, excuse me Listener and Speaker, but do any of you have a sponge and a bit of soap?" Arius asked, his voice muffled by the tissue he was still holding in front of his nose and mouth. "Because there is a little stain on…"

"Sit down immediately, Arius!" J'Ghasta growled. "Or else it is your own blood which is going to stain that stupid stool!"

Belisarius Arius obeyed right away, but his face twitched a bit when his posterior touched the chair. Grumbling, the Listener reported his attention on Lucien, who had not raised his head during the whole scene. He was still looking gloomily at his beer ewer, not a muscle moving on his face and his stare as fixed as the one of a statute.

"Hey, Lucien!"

J'Ghasta snapped his fingers right under Lachance's nose. The latter blinked and finally turned his head toward the newcomers.

"Good evening, Honourable Listener …" he said without much enthusiasm. J'Ghasta latter noticed the large dark under the Speaker's eyes. It seemed that Lachance did not sleep much lately…

"Are you going to drink you beer or are you just making eyes to it?" J'Ghasta asked the Speaker happily. "Or maybe you are trying to read your future in the thick deposit I can see at the bottom of your ewer…" he added as he looked over Lucien's arm.

"The only thing one would see in that mug is that one will be sick if he drinks it…" whispered Arius.

"J'Ghasta…" replied Lucien, putting his both hands flat on the table and articulating every syllable carefully. "I know teasing me is one of your favourite hobbies, but I am really not in the mood right now. So please and please leave me alone."

There was a silence. The Khajiit's cheerful expression froze a bit but then he beamed again.

"Silencer Arius… What about getting us some drinks, hey?" he said while pointing with his thumb at the bar behind him. "I am very curious about trying the dishwater they call beer here…."

Arius looked in the direction of the Listener's finger and turned a bit pale.

"You mean over there?" Arius said, gulping. "At the bar behind which something huge and hairy with glowing red eyes is wiping glasses…?"

"Must be the waiter!" J'Ghasta replied with a smile. "Off you go now, Silencer!"

Arius put on a dignified martyred look, but nevertheless left the table to go to the bar. J'Ghasta waited for him to be out of ears' reach and turned back his attention on Lucien, who was staring at him gloomily.

"Taking it out on the kids and the old servant wasn't enough?" said the Khajiit in a soft voice, but with a little angry gleam in the eyes. "You also have to vent your frustration on me?"

"Give it a rest, J'Ghasta…"

"You did not answer my question…"

Lucien's lips curled up like the chops of a wild animal ready to attack.

"I have lost my honour, my reputation and, without the intervention of M'raaj-Dar, I was an inch from loosing my virility…" he hissed between gritted teeth. "In less than a heart beat! So how do you think I feel!?"

"Oooooh… Let me see… Ridiculed? Completely humiliated...?" J'Ghasta laughed when he saw the painful and shocked expression on his friend's face. "Ah, come on! It is not the first time and probably won't be the last you feel a bit embarrassed in public! Are you going to rummage over it for the rest of your life?"

The Speaker made an annoyed "_tsss_" noise with his mouth.

"It… it is not…_that_! Well, it is, but not completely… Ah well…!"

Lucien became silent, glaring sadly at his beer for a while. He ultimately brought the mug to his lips and J'Ghasta made a face when he started gulping down part of the disgusting brew.

The Listener was worried. It was so unlike Lucien to be demoralised and so… sensitive.

Well, it was not exactly true. Lucien, despite being often perceived as ruthless and sinister bastard, was actually an emotive person with a specialisation in feelings like anger, sadistic happiness, extreme cynicism, scorn and its corollary arrogance. But it was no problem with J'Ghasta who knew how to deal with these emotions properly. On the contrary, a depressed Lucien was a totally new and rather scary thing…

"It is _his_ entire fault again…" Lucien grumbled bitterly, banging on the table with his fist. "Even dead, _he_ is still causing me trouble."

J'Ghasta sighed inwardly. Ah, yes, "_he_"… Lucien's pet peeve, more commonly known as Martin Septim, the last heir of the Septim throne and Akatosh's Avatar. Between him and Lucien, the antipathy had been immediate and reciprocal, and once they would have even probably massacred each other if Baurus and J'Ghasta had not intervened to separate them. They nevertheless had managed to overcome their mutual repulsion to go to the rescue of the only thing they had in common - Sigrid Trencavel. Funnily enough, the young bard was also their principal reason to hate each other…

"Here are your beers, Speaker and Honourable Listener." said Arius, who had just come back from the bar. "Please drink them slowly, because, with all due respects, there is no way I am going back there…"

The Silencer put the mugs in front of his two companions and J'Ghasta frowned when noticed there were just two beer mugs

"You did not take anything?" the Listener asked. "Are you broke, man? Hang on, I must have a few spare coins…" he added, ruffling in his pockets.

"Thank you a lot, Honourable Listener, but I do not feel that thirsty or desperate..." Arius replied, looking eloquently at the contents of the mugs.

"I so wish Vicente was there." Lucien moaned, completely ignoring the discussion between his tow companions. "He was always so good at those human relations things…"

"We all wish he was." J'Ghasta replied, drumming his fingers on his beer mug. "I miss the old bat an awful lot too."

The Listener raised his ewer over his head.

"To Vicente Valtieri, the best mentor, vampire and assassin to have ever set foot on Nirn!"

"I think he would have found the praise a bit too exaggerated." Lucien said with a little smile as he imitated his friend. "But he was as a father to us as well as a pillar of the Dark Brotherhood… To Vicente Valtieri!"

"I have never met him personally and there is no way I am going to drink the beer that dive provides." said Arius in his soft voice. "But I am sure he was as great as the Honourable Listener described him." He raised an empty hand. "To Vicente Valtieri!"

"To Vicente Valtieri!" they all repeated again together.

And Lucien and J'Ghasta drank their mugs. Arius glared at them, ready to see them collapsing on the ground, poisoned and twisting in pain. But nothing happened.

"Hey, that piss is not that bad…!" said J'Ghasta, licking his chops.

"Glad to hear it, but I guess you did not come here only to toast our late lamented friend and comment on the drinks." said Lucien, who seemed to have perked up a bit – probably thanks to the alcohol. "Why are you here, Listener?"

"I am here to arrange a few more details with you before I leave for Elsweyr…" said J'Ghasta while ruffling through his pockets. "I saw the Night Mother tonight who officially promoted acting-Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. You will see, it is very cool." he added as Lucien took the sealed letter the he was handing him. "You have all the girls and money."

The Speaker of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary did not seem particularly thrilled at the prospect. Nevertheless, he opened the document and read it.

"Are you sure you want to do this, J'Ghasta?" he asked once he was done. "Going to Elsweyr alone may not be the wisest thing to do. And I don't know if we can trust Scribonius. He told us where Trencavel wanted to go, but remained very vague about her objectives…"

"As if I had the choice!" J'Ghasta laughed. "Our Unholy Matron made very clear she wanted _me_ to go there - she probably hopes I may get killed in my quest to find our dear little bard." The Khajiit put his feet on the table and stretched. "Bah, it is all right. I have not been back to Elsweyr in more than thirty years… It is going to be good to be back home - even if it is probably to die… Alone… In terrible pains… My little body huddling up under the dry and hot sands of the deserts… "

The sentence was punctuated by a long silence during which nothing could be heard apart from the start of an argument between drunkards in the back of the bar, which was involving the weird creature Arius had spotted when entering the bar and another one which was an evil balloon-wielding clown with a sadistic grin and a badge on his chest saying 'Pennywise'. The octopus-looking thing was accusing the clown of having walked on its tentacles.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!" gargled the first creature, waving menacingly its tentacles at the clown.

"Want a balloon?" cackled the latter.

Feeling like something very personal was about to take place between Lucien and J'Ghasta and not wishing to attend it, Arius wisely decided to discreetly leave the table to take a closer look at the quarrel of the Third Kind.

"Look, I am really sorry, but…" Lucien finally started, but J'Ghasta immediately raised a hand to interrupt him.

"We already talk about that, dude. The Night Mother is right when she said _I_ am responsible for all this. I should not have sent you to reason with Trencavel knowing you will be unable to carry out this duty successfully."

Lucien looked visibly shaken by what J'Ghasta has just said.

"I told our Unholy Matron I was responsible for what happened! It is not my fault if she decided you should take the blame for it!" Lucien protested.

"No, it is not your fault…" J'Ghasta replied, ironic. "But you did not defend me much either – as well as you did not insist to accompany me in my dangerous trip…"

The sound of a table crashing interrupted the Khajiit. Apparently, the argument between the evil clown and the equally evil octopus thingy had degenerated into a very messy and nasty bar brawl.

"But I really wanted to come with you!" Lucien exclaimed, dunking as he avoided a flying beer mug. "But I am your Apprentice, and as such, I am supposed to take in charge your duties in your absence!"

"Yeah, yeah, of course…" Sarcasms were dripping for the Khajiit's voice and Lucien's jaw dropped when he realised what his friend was implying.

"Hang on, hang on… You are not accusing me of plotting to get your job…?!"

"Come on… Everybody knows you are quite ambitious…"

"To think I believed cats being able to get back on their four legs…! You have fallen on your head or what?!" Lucien barked, both outraged and incensed. "What's wrong with you?!"

For all answer, J'Ghasta gave Lucien a nasty grin. The two men glared at each other in a terrible racket of destroyed furniture, until, from the mess of tentacles, teeth, claws and wings which was fidgeting behind them, a well-known voice politely started to ask for help.

"I propose we forget about our argument for a while to give a hand to your Silencer who seems to require our help…" J'Ghasta said, his eyes still riveted on Lucien.

"Agree…" replied the Speaker, himself still glaring at the Khajiit.

And, as one man, they jumped into the battle.

7777777777777777777

Far away from any bar brawls and strange creatures from the Multiverse, a young woman was walking along the banks of Lake Rumare. With the sun setting in the background and the pink orange sky reflecting in the water of the lake, the scene was very romantic and could have made a good subject for a painting or maybe for a poem. If only the girl was not talking loudly and gesticulating as if she was talking to someone while being apparently alone…

"_You could have told me! After all we went through together, I thought you would trust me…!"_Clairvoix exclaimed angrily.

"Trust was not the problem, Clairvoix." Sigrid replied in an annoyed tone. "I was afraid of your reaction if I mentioned my plans to you. And I was right!"

"_It is just I hate being presented with a fait accompli!"_

The girl had a sarcastic smile.

"Oh. And would you have reacted differently if I had told you about my project?"

"_Well, er, no, but still…!"_ said the sword, sounding rather embarrassed.

Sigrid replied nothing. She had stopped walking and was looking at the Imperial City which shined in the sunset, the light effects playing on the White Gold Tower.

"_Listen…"_ Clairvoix continued in an appeased voice. _"A few months ago, when you were praying on Vicente's tomb, I swore you fidelity and I ensured you of my support... So, I really would like you to show me a bit more trust, all right? Especially regarding things which concern us both. "_

Sigrid remained silent and started to play with a stone with her foot, making it rolling under her sole. She was not sure what to reply and she was more touched she really wanted to admit…

"All right." she said in a low voice. "But remember we are not sharing the same body anymore and so I have the right to a little privacy."

"_It is perfectly fine with me."_ The sword became silent for a while, as if it was contemplating the Imperial City as well. _"So, what is the plan? How are we going to make it to Elsweyr?_"

Sigrid made a face. A plan? Ah, if only she had one…

"Well, I thought about taking the boat which makes the crossing between the Imperial City and the south of Elsweyr. We should be in Senchal in three days."

"_And then?"_

"Then? I don't have a clue, so any suggestions are welcome." she replied with a little derisive laugh.

"_You know there are few chances for us to succeed…"_

"I have to try, Clairvoix. If I don't, it will wear me down until my death…"

"_And what if you don't find anything? What if there are no means to bring Vicente and Martin back?"_

The girl's facial features hardened.

"This is an eventuality I don't even want to think about…" she whispered, her fingers clenched on Clairvoix' hilt.

Her eyes still riveted on the iridescent glints on the white stones of the Tower, she was breathing deeply, doing her best to divert her thought from the uneasiness she had been experiencing since she had left Scribonius.

The feeling was not linked to the remorse of having she had hidden her plans to Clairvoix or to the nagging pain she was experiencing in the small of her back – another great joy of maternity. No… It was hard to admit, but all that clear sky above her head was making her sick, and she was missing the solid stone roof of the Cheydinhall Sanctuary a lot. But should she have expected anything else, after having spent nine month shut up in her tiny room? And it was not her rare and short late-night expeditions to Scribonius' place which had prepared her to face wide spaces again…

Sighing heavily for the hundredth time in the day, she started walking again and tried to focus on the amazing sight offered by Imperial City to stop thinking about her uneasiness.

The titanic project undertaken by Chancellor Ocato and the Council of the Elders to reconstruct the city was not finished yet. Many scaffolding were visible in and outside the ramparts as well as numerous workers who, from there, looked like ants. But in spite of this, the work already achieved was astounding.

As Sigrid had been explained by the members of the Cheydinhall Sanctuary, the reconstruction initially only concerned the Temple District, but the architects, who wished to keep the circular symmetry of the city, had underlined the necessity to include the whole metropolis into the project. Despite the cost of such an enterprise, the Council of The Elder gave its approval.

As a result, embankments had been added on the sides of the overhang on which the Imperial City had pride of place to allow the enlargement of the existing districts. The ramparts had been destroyed then rebuilt fifty meters ahead, a work which required the work of thousands mages and men and cost the life of many… But as Chancellor Ocato would say, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.

But it soon appeared the enlargement of the Imperial City had seriously cut down on Lake Rumare and was threatening the river traffic. Thus, the Imperial Bridge had to be shortened and raised, and a special canal had been added to allow the traffic of four boats at once. Of course, to cope with such an increase in the number of boats, the Imperial harbour had to be enlarged and a shipyard was added.

Obviously, there were malcontents who said that all that profusion of work was the biggest wasting of public money in centuries. According to them, there were many more urgent issues, like guaranteeing the stability within the Empire, and if Chancellor Ocato and some of his friends of the Council of the Elder wanted to go down in history, they would be nice enough _not_ to do it with the taxpayers' money…

But Sigrid did not care much about political debates. The only thing she was really interested in right now was to contemplate the new Temple of the One – or Temple of the Two Dragons as they called it now. It was said to be as beautiful as the Crystal Tower and as impressive as the Halls of Colossus…

The Temple… Where everything ended…

"_A bit apprehensive, hey?"_ Clairvoix asked softly.

Sigrid blinked and turned her attention to the sword dandling against her thigh.

"Yes." she replied in a hoarse voice.

How could she not be…? She had not been back to the Imperial City since Martin's victory over Merhunes Dagon and she was absolutely not sure if she would be able to cope with… But to cope with _what_actually? With all the emotions and frustrations linked to the place? Well, she had plenty of time in the Sanctuary to ponder over this particular issue, and she was ready to cope with it, wasn't she…?

"_We'__d better hurry."_ said Clairvoix, interrupting her thoughts once more. _"Given the number of people who are going to the city, only the firsts will manage to get a bed for the night."_

The girl roused herself from her contemplation and, walking with resignation toward the road which lead to the main city gate. She caught up with the flow of people who were getting back to the Imperial City to spend the night there, protected by the powerful ramparts.

The feeling of insecurity she was experiencing became more acute, almost painful, as she found herself surrounded by so many persons at once – another proof she had become slightly ochlophobic as well as agoraphobic.

But among the noisy and colourful crowd, she noticed small group of silent people, just wearing white robes, a walking stick and several amulets hanging around their neck. What struck Sigrid was their "rapt in prayer" look.

"_Pilgrims?" _she asked mentally to Clairvoix, while glaring curiously at them.

"_It seems so."_

"_But… There are __quite a lot of them!"_

"_Were you paying attention at the weekly news point Lucien made at the sanctuary?"_

"_I was too busy pondering on how to kill the__pretentious fool…"_ Sigrid replied nastily.

Clairvoix sighed but did not comment furthermore.

"_Well, after Martin defeated Dagon and Symetrius Jouaux kicked Umaril's ass, there was an important revival of people's interest in the Gods. The Nine are in favour again and a growing number of the Empire denizens are doing the pilgrimage to the Nine's shrines, ending up there journey in the Imperial City, at the Temple of the Two."_

Sigrid followed the crown until she reached the main gate. Once there, she could not help but stop breathing and clenching her fists as she got through it, as if she was expecting the cobblestones to yell out her real identity as soon as she would put a toe on them. But of course, such thing did not happen, and everybody around her – especially the guards who were carefully checking the contents of the carts entering the city – was far too busy to notice her weird behaviour…

Partially reassured, she started to walk with determination toward the Temple district. But what she had not planned was the changes she has seen from outside were also valid inside and the urban plans had been completely modified.

Oh, there were still the great and clear arterial roads which were the city's pride. But many little perpendicular as well as parallel streets had been added in an attempt to loosen the traffic and you could actually find yourself walking in a circle without noticing…

Still very wary of protecting her identity, Sigrid did not want to ask her way, but after getting lost several times, she had to resolve herself to do so, but not without covering her hair and part of her face with her hood.

So, thanks to the help of kind passerbys, she finally reached the Temple District, and on her way to the Temple, she noticed the imposing commandership of the Order of the Nine. The building stood a stone's throw away from the Temple, an undeniable clue of their current political weight in the Empire. But she did not spend more time to ponder over the political implications of her discovery as the Temple was now standing right in front of her.

Even if the sun had set, it looked so brilliant in the moons light it took Sigrid's breath away. The white stone walls had been replaced by marble which was reflecting the light of the starts. The dull and colourless windows had been replaced by multicoloured ones stained window. The Temple was now as three times bigger than it used to be and had been covered by a huge stone dome like the one which was overhanging the room in which the Council of the Elder. Huge and odorant flower beds had been added all around the building and long banners to the colour of all cities and provinces of the Empire were flying in the winds.

"Ye Gods…" Sigrid whispered.

"_Wow!"_ Clairvoix exclaimed mentally in Sigrid's head. _"It must have cost a lot of dough…!"_

"_You could show a bit of respect!" _the girl barked mentally.

"_I__ do! I respect expensive things, you know!"_

But Sigrid was not in the mood to argue with the sword. She was extremely annoyed. Indeed, she had expected to be disturbed and moved at the sight of the place Martin had died. But, apart for her amazement at the architectural accomplishment, she seemed unable to feel any other emotion and this was

"_Are you all right?"_ Clairvoix asked, sounding worried. _"You look all weird…Are you having one of your pregnant-woman-nauseas-thingy again? If you need to throw up, there is a bunch of bushes behind the Temple, I am sure no one will notice… "_

"_Shut up, Clairvoix."_

Gulping and taking a deep breath in an attempt to relax, Sigrid walked hurriedly toward the entrance of the Temple. Maybe if she saw the Stone Dragon, she could be able to feel something...?

Convinced it was what she needed, the girl started to clear herself a path trough the queue which was waiting to get into the Temple. Some people started to complain and insult her as she pushed them aside, but immediately shut up when they realised she was pregnant. Sigrid smile inwardly. Her condition had a few advantages after all…

It took her a while to get accustomed to the relative darkness which reigned in the building. But once her eyes got used to their new environment, she soon realised the inside was not that dark and was actually bathed in an unreal light going through the tainted windows.

And then she saw the Dragon. It was there, standing right in the middle of the Temple, illuminated by hundreds of candles and surrounded with a protective fence.

Sigrid felt the urge to touch it, or at least get closer, but it was surrounded by a great crowd of pilgrims who were singing songs and praying, and, this time, she did not dare pushing them aside. In addition, she doubted it would help her much anyway.

"_Clairvoix… Why can't I feel anything?"_ she asked the sword mentally.

"Beg your pardon?"

"_I can't feel anything__!"_ Sigrid moaned. _"It is as if I don't care!!"_

"_Hmm__, to tell the truth, I was expecting you to burst into tears" _Clairvoix replied thoughtfully._ "You probably don't feel touched because you are convinced you are going to bring Martin back to life."_

This did not seem to convince the girl. She was jumping from one feet to another and looked clearly

"_And… and__ what if I did not really love Martin?" _she finally said while twisted her fingers in anxiety. "_Maybe I just imagine it or something…"_

"_Don't be silly!_" exclaimed the sword. _"I was in your head when you felt in love with him, so I know what I am talking about… Nah, it is probably too much for you at once… Let's visit the place – it will divert your mind from your gloomy thoughts!"_

But the sword was wrong. As they walked along the nave and the different shrines of the Nine and their Saints Clairvoix was making erudite comments on the mythology of the Nine as well as on the architecture, but Sigrid was not paying attention. Too many questions were obsessing her. How come she was not moved at all? She suffered so much after his death and Vicente's… Was it possible she could remain so calm because she already considered as acquired the fact she could bring Martin back from the dead…?

"_Ooooh, Sigrid! Look at that! I am sure you are going to enjoy it!" _Clairvoix exclaimed.

Sigrid unenthusiastically looked at the shrine in front of which they were passing by and her jaw drop.

"_Saint Sigrid Trencavel's Shrine! Isn't that wonderful?"_

The statute was representing her – or rather, what she looked like before… well, _before_. She was standing up, one hand on her hips while the other was pointing at the sky in a very lyrical move, and the face of the statute was frozen in a both severe and stuffy expression.

"_Hey, I have never worn such… short kind of clothes!"_ she said mentally, looking with eyes like saucers at the outfit of the statute.

"_And you look very constipated."_ the sword giggled.

Sigrid had to acknowledge. Her statute did not look very… relaxed. Nevertheless, Saint Trencavel seemed to be rather popular. Her altar was covered in candles and flowers, and a few devout people were currently praying in front of the pedestal of the statute. Then, her eyes fall onto a big item which was standing near the statute and which seemed to be the object of as much veneration as the altar…

"_I guess you never expected to end up as a saint, hey?"_ Clairvoix said, laughing. "Sigrid?! What's wrong?" he added as he realised tears were running down Sigrid's cheeks.

"It… It is my harp…" she replied, sobbing as she pointed at the big object near the altar. "The harp my grandmother offered me when I won my first singing competition in Daggerfall. She gave me her _own_ harp!"

How could she have forgotten about her harp…? In the last months, she had been many things: the Champion of the Arena, the Hero of Kvatch and Bruma, Martin's lover… But above all, she was a bard, a recognised and acclaimed artist who used to draw, paint, sing and compose famous songs. And it was all her life was about.

"I want my harp!" Sigrid whined as she started walking toward the item.

"_No Sigrid." _said Clairvoix calmly but firmly, and there was so much authority in his tone the girl immediately stopped where she was standing. "_This harp is not yours anymore. It was Sigrid Trencavel's. And she is dead. You are dead…You, and well as this harp, are part of the legend now."_

At the words, Sigrid's tears intensified.

"_Well,__ sorry. I am not good at comforting people." _the sword said in an embarrassed voice._ "But see the good side of things! You wanted to cry, here you go!"_

"You are not funny!" Sigrid replied between two sobs.

She was looking for her tissue to blow her nose when a cheerful voice rang out behind her.

"Hey, cheer up, fair lady! You are facing the altar of the Saint of Music, Arts and Celebrations after all!"

Wiping the tears out of her face with the back of her hand, Sigrid turned her head toward her interlocutor and, as soon as her eyes fell on his face, her heart stopped for a second. That face… That _face_ with "little cunning bastard" written on its forehead…

"_Thoronir_._"_Sigrid said to herself, looking at the Wood Elf in horror. _"Oh Gods no, he is going to recognise me…"_

Thoronir, one of the most famous and disreputable merchant of the Imperial City, always praised his ability to recognise any of his customers. Unfortunately, Sigrid had to require his services in her former life, services which cost the Wood Elf a nice little stay in the Imperial Prison. So, if among all the faces he had seen there was one he had to remember, it was definitely Sigrid's…

The girl tensed up, expecting Thoronir to yell something like "By the Nine! _You_? But you are dead!"

But instead, the Wood Elf just stood there, his biggest plastic smile stuck on his face.

"You are new to the City, aren't you?" he carried on.

Sigrid nodded silently, unable to speak. She was starting to sweat out of panic and was clenching her fists nervously.

"And why were you crying?"

"I…" Sigrid hesitated a bit, but finally decided to tell the truth. "I wanted to touch the harp and the Dragon. But… I can't…"

Thoronir looked compassionate.

"Well, I am afraid no one can get near the Harp and the Dragon – except during special events – buuuuut…" A cunning expression appeared on his weasel face. "… I am sure you will enjoy… _this!_"

As he spoke, the Wood Elf rummaged in his display and, in a theatrical move, he removed something he put right under Sigrid's nose. She squinted at it and took it in her hands to take a better look at it.

"The-Stone-Dragon-original-reproduction-of-the-real-one-on-a-one-thousandth-scale-entirely-hand-made-and-hand-painted-_ten-septims-only_-rebate-for-good-customers-five-percent-ten-percent-transferred-to-the-Foundation-of-Arkay-for-poor-people" Thoronir reeled off.

"A mini Stone Dragon? But what is it for?"

"Who cares?" the Wood Elf said cheerfully. "It is great, isn't it?"

Dumfounded, Sigrid let her fingers running on the little statute. It was a prefect imitation of the Stone Dragon, except it was standing on a little bronze pedestal on which was engraved "Souvenir from the Imperial City".

She blinked and looked around her. Now, she was realising there were not only monks, priests and pilgrims in the Temple. Here and there, she also could see people wearing a display full of articles similar to Thoronir's and canvassing people in the sacred interior.

"You… you are making money out of…of _Martin_?" she asked dryly, turning her attention back on the Wood Elf.

"Oh, right." continued Thoronir, thinking Sigrid's indignation was linked to the price and not to his lack of morality. "If you don't like this article, maybe you would prefer a commemorative doublet?"

Before she could utter a word, he produced an embroiled shirt with a slogan saying "Don't mess with the Imperial City: we have dragons!". At the sight, Sigrid's eyes popped out.

"If you don't like this slogan, they are others, like 'Akatosh rocks my socks' or 'Battle of the Temple: I was there' **(2)**. And for two doublets bought, the third is offered…" the Wood Elf whispered, winking at the girl.

His smile turned into a worried rictus when he realised Sigrid was glaring at him with murder in her eyes and before he could make a move, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt with her free hand and pulled him toward her until their face were barely an inch from one another.

"How _can _you do business on the memory and the graves of those who have sacrificed their life to save us all?!" she hissed, showing him the little Stone Dragon.

"We are not doing anything wrong!" Thoronir protested. "Our activity has been approved by the highest authorities!"

Sigrid's eyes narrowed.

"Approved by the Council? My ass!"

"Oh yeah? And how do you and your ass think the Council of the Elder and the Church of the Nine are paying all the construction and renovation work they have undertaken to do? By praying the Gods?" sniggered the Wood Elf. "If you have complaints to make, go to see them and ask them when they will stop fighting over the mortal remains of those who died for the Nine in order to sell them to the highest bidder?"

"You are disgusting!"

"But _why_ do you make such a fuss? Heroes are popular and sell well!" whined Thoronir, rather taken aback by Sigrid's virulence. "People love them, you know! And they don't have to be dead to be fashionable!" For the third time, Thoronir started to search something in his display. "Look, the most popular article at the moment is Lord Symetrius' doll..."

The Wood Elf showed her a rag doll dressed as a knight, with a helmet, a tiny shield and sword.

"Oh _oh_! By the Nine!" the doll exclaimed as Thoronir squeezed its tummy.

Sigrid glared at the thing for a while, then gave a big sigh and slowly let the Wood Elf go.

"True…" she said in a weary voice. "There are now laws against it. And if people like them…"

She passed a hand over her face. Thoronir was right. What was the point in protesting? The emotions she had experienced in the last hours were taking her toll on her and she was feeling exhausted and completely empty. The pain in her back had intensified and her travelling bag was sawing her shoulder. All she was looking for now was a comfy bed.

"Er… Does that mean you are going to buy me something?" the Wood Elf asked shyly with his eyes full of hope.

"Don't push your luck, man…" Sigrid growled.

Thoronir had an embarrassed laugh and hid the puppet behind his back.

There was a lot of bustle at the entrance of the Temple. The murmur in the audience amplified while at the same time a religious song started to echo in between the walls of the Temple.

"What's going on?" Sigrid asked to no one in particular.

"It's time for the temple service!" Thoronir had materialised by her side. "There is a meeting of the Council of the Elder tonight and now the Temple has been reconstructed, it is traditional for them to attend a religious service before discussing political matters. Er…"

The Wood Elf stopped speaking and cowered a bit under the girl's glance.

"I am sorry but I thought you wanted some explanations…" he said with an embarrassed grin.

"You won't leave me alone until I give you money, hey?"

Thoronir answered Sigrid with a big smile.

Around them, guards had been pushing people away from the main nave in order to give way to the procession. As a result, people were packing up along the way, and Sigrid had to jump to take a better look. She winced as the baby kicked her back to express his displeasure at being shaken like that. Sighing, she brought herself to try to peer over people's shoulders on the tip of her toes. Thoronir, thanks to his small size, was looking at the show in between people's legs.

"So, these people are…" started Thoronir.

"I know who they are…" Sigrid replied as she ordered the Wood Elf to shut up with an annoyed move of her hand.

The procession was lead by the high prelate of the Church of the Nine, who will by the Counts of Cyrodiil and the other Peers of the Empire. Sigrid recognised Countess Alessia Caro and her husband, but also Salvian Matius who had been promoted Count of Kvatch and who looked quite ill-at-ease in his gentleman clothes. No doubt that at this very moment, he was missing his armour a lot. But it was the couple coming behind him who attracted Sigrid's attention.

Countess Nirana Carvain was coming up to the arm of his husband, Captain Burd in Bruma, and Sigrid immediately noticed the small round belly which was outlined by her tight robes. No need to be medium to work out that Carvain was pregnant. The Countess was glowing with health and happiness, and Burd looked like he was floating on a little pink. A wave of envy and jealousy rose in Sigrid's chest at the sight of the happy united couple… To think she lost everything in her fight against Merhunes Dagon and was now forced to contemplate the others' bliss…

But she did not have the time to chew over her bitterness as a group of heavily armed men was coming behind the Peers.

"Those people are the Knights of the Nine…" Thoronir explained as Sigrid shot him an interrogative look. "They are the only persons entitled to wear weapons inside the Temple. And you see the man leading the delegation? It is Lord Symetrius Jouaux."

Sigrid examined with great interest the Great Commander of the Knights, and was struck by his appearance. She was picturing him as some kind of heavily built, old and scarred warrior, but she found herself looking a rather young man who was accepting gracefully the crowd's demands for a benediction.

"Who are the two men behind Lord Jouaux?" Sigrid asked to Thoronir as she glared at Jouaux' companions.

"The first one is Father Jôme – a nasty piece of work, if you want my opinion, and you don't tell anyone I said that! As for the one wearing the mask, he is Lord Sinister – or Frater Sinister, as he liked being called… He was one of the first companions of Lord Jouaux."

"'Frater Sinister'... Weird name for a Knight fighting against the evil…" Sigrid said thoughtfully. "And what about the mask?"

"They say he has been disfigured by the Purple Plague." The Wood Elf shrugged. "I don't know if it is true, but no one has been dumb enough to check…"

But Sigrid had already stopped listening to the Wood Elf as a well know figure was now coming up the nave. Jauffre, the Grandmaster of the Blades, and a small contingent of Blades were representing inhabitants of the Cloud Ruler Temple. Compared to the self-confidence of the Knights of the Nine, the Blades clearly were on the defensive. Sigrid scanned the faces of the delegation to see if Baurus' was among them. But there was no sign of the Redguard's friendly smile...

"_Hmm, don't you think it is time for us to quickly get out from here…?"_ whispered Clairvoix.

"Agree…" the girl whispered back.

Indeed, there were now far too many people in the Temple who knew her as Sigrid Trencavel and saw her dead. And the last thing she wanted to do was to blow up her cover. So she slowly tried to walk backward without attracting Thoronir's attention, but as she realised the Wood Elf was still engrossed in his contemplation of the procession, she quickly turned back and started to run.

Sadly, by doing so, she did not see the silhouette coming from her right, and she collided violently into it.

Her bottom hit the stone ground and she groaned in pain while the other person fell heavily backward as well.

"By Si… the Nine! Can't you watch where you are going?" she asked angrily, massaging her small of the back.

But she did not get any answer. She was facing a pile of wriggling colourful clothes, by which was standing a small and fluffy white dog which was looking from the pile to Sigrid, apparently rather confused. Then, it stopped its little game and looked at Sigrid with curiosity.

Suddenly, its little dark eyes widened and it started shaking its tail and drooling abundantly…

"_Oh dear Night Mother…" _moaned Clairvoix in her head_. "Among all the people you could have bumped into, you had to bump into _this one_!"_

"What? What do you…?" Sigrid asked, but her question died away as she recognised the dog, and horror painted all over her face. To add up to her terror, from the pile of clothes emerged the plump and well known face of Ontus Vanin, former member of the Mage Guild, Peer of the Empire and Count Hassildor's friend and sidekick.

Now everybody around were looking at them, quite interested by the show, and Sigrid, who was now overwhelmed by panic, tried to cover her face back with all her veils.

Groaning as he got up, Ontus Vanin mage opened his mouth to yell and complain, but he stopped when he realised Sigrid was pregnant.

"Oh, I am so sorry, my lady…!" the mage started as he walked toward Sigrid to help her to stand up.

"I am fine, it's all right…" Sigrid mumbled as she tried to conceal her face from him as well as preventing him from touching her.

"Well, I do apologise… Oh, Furball, stop it!" he said to the little dog who was jumping around Sigrid, still drooling and begging for a stroke.

"I should take you to see the healer…" the old mage continued as he grabbed the girl by the hand.

"No no no, it is not necessary…" Sigrid mumbled in a panicked voice. "I am perfectly fine!"

She was desperately looking to find a way to get rid of Vanin when fortunately a person she could not see called him…

"Ontus! Hurry up! We are already late for the service!"

The old mage made a pout but freed Sigrid's hand.

"Well, I have to go… But you should see someone, my dear."

He shot her a friendly smile and ran away, followed by the little dog, who gave Sigrid a quizzical look…

"Ehehe…" Thoronir giggled as he watched the silhouettes of the duo walking away. "Looks like you are well in with Hassildor's dog…"

The Wood Elf turned around to watch Sigrid's reaction, but the girl was not there anymore. She had disappeared into the crowd, taking the small Stone Dragon with her. Without paying…

(1) J'Ghasta ignored the werewolves were actually females and had nothing against a bit of shopping.

(2) Thanks hips to the Vampire Apple for the inspiration...XD


	4. A Pirate's Life for Me !

_**Erratum:**_** Gah… In the previous chapter I forgot to explain why the Temple of the One was now called The Temple of the Two Dragons… **

**This is what happens when you write too long chapters with too many details and proof-reading late at night… On the other hand, no one apparently noticed, so…:P**

**All right, about our Temple…Originally, it was the Temple of the one, aka Talos, also knows by Nord people as Ysmir, the Dragon of the North. And now, as Martin Septim turned into Akatosh, the Dragon of Time to defeat Dagon, the Temple is known as the Temple of the Two Dragons .**

**QED ! **

_**Mini game**_**: Yargh:D This chapter is full of famous pirates, sailors and ships. Will you be able to spot them ? **

**OK, I did not change the names to much ****and it should be easy. I apologise in advance because there is a profusion of this kind of people in this chapter, but it was far too tempting, and I have always been fascinated by the maritime world.**

**This is certainly going to be the last chapter before a while… As some of you may know, I am going to undergo a radical change of life and I am not sure how things are going to get organised yet.**

**I will see how it goes the first weeks, and if I realise I won't have time to work on the fic, I will put in on hiatus for the duration of my stay ****at the military school, that is to say about 4/5 months… :) Hope you guys will stay tuned despite this.**

**Bit thanks to Sayl for having beta read most of this chapter.****mega hugs to him**

**And I tr****ied to make a shorter chapter. (winks at Haunt-for-life sadly) Sadly, I failed...(cough)**

**As usual, suggestions are very welcome. ;)**

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The Imperial Harbour was bustling with activity, particularly on the quays were several ships arrived earlier in the morning. Sailors and travellers were getting off the boats, happy to be on steady ground after having spent sometimes several weeks at sea.

The crowd of passengers and sailors embarking and disembarking was mixing with the dockers who were unloading the recently arrived vessels and were trying to make their way with their loads to the warehouses. Many products were arriving from all the Empire, from rare tissues and spices to animals, and all those were marching under the look of the Custom guards which was more or less benevolent according to the "palms greasing" they had received.

In short, the atmosphere on the harbour that morning was not different from the one which was usually reining in such place – except, perhaps, in the Port Authority building…

It was Mister Smeeth's turn to be on duty today. Despite the fact he was an Imperial officer, everyone on the harbour kept calling him "Mister" rather than "Captain" – an old habit of when he was boatswain on the "_Jolly Roger_". Besides, he had always refused to wear the helmet linked to the uniform of his duties, and was sporting instead a shapeless and ageless red hat. A pair of half spectacles perched in his big nose completed his rather unofficial and good-natured appearance.

But despite this, Mister Smeeth was not an imbecile. He was a man of experience who had travelled over all the seas of Mundus and had seen many marvels as well as horrors. However, there was nothing his busy life which prepared him for dealing with an angry Khajiit. A very angry and athletic Khajiit…

"What do you mean by 'there won't be boats to Senchal before _three days_'?!" the Khajiit barked.

Mister Smeeth whined inwardly. Why did it have to happen to _him_? He was not a complicated man. All he was asking for was to quietly mind his business, that is to say carry out his duty as an officer of the Harbour as well as well as touch his ten percent commissions on the petty traffics he covered up.

"I told you, sir! The _Sophie_left the Imperial Harbour early this morning and so did the _Endeavour_ in Senchal. It won't be here before Fredas morning."

Apparently, it was not the answer the Khajiit was expecting. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Mister Smeeth cowered a bit on his chair.

"All right, Mister…?" he said, massaging his temples.

"Smeeeeeeek…!" squeaked the old man, who was glaring, hypnotised, at the impressive biceps moving under the Khajiit's short fur. "I mean, Smeeth. Mister Smeeth."

"Mister Smeeth…" the Khajiit repeated slowly. He then put his hands flat on Smeeth's desk and leaned forward until he found himself towering over the frightened man. "We are both reasonable men. Thus, we don't want to harm each other, do we?"

Mister Smeeth gulped and pushed back his spectacles on his nose – the sweat kept making them sliding against the bridge of his nose.

"_Do we_?" the Khajiit repeated menacingly as he was not getting an answer quick enough.

"No! No!" squealed the officer.

"So, you are going to find me a boat immediately and everything should be fine!"

"But I explained you there is no boat availaaaaargh!"

Roaring in rage, the Khajiit had grabbed the old man by the collar of his white and blue shirt which was sticking out of his armour and had lifted him several inches above the floor.

"You old cunning devil, do you imagine I am not aware of your little skulduggeries within the harbour?" the Khajiit hissed. "How do you think your superior would react to this if someone was indelicate enough to provide them some interesting information on the subject?"

Mister Smeeth gulped. He had a magnificent and protected view on the Khajiit's incredible and perfectly well-kept dentition.

"You don't have any evidence!" yelped the Customs Officer.

"Oh, I _do_…" The Khajiit grinned, and a terrified Mister Smeeth noted that the guy had actually more teeth than he initially thought. "So, you are going to requisition a boat to take me to Senchal, or else…"

There was a soft sound, like silk being cut by a sharp blade, and the old officer realised in horror that long and pointed claws had materialised right under his nose and were slowly going down toward his throat…

"Morning, gentlemen!" said a deep and calm voice from the entrance.

At the words, the Khajiit dropped Mister Smeeth, who collapsed behind his desk, while his aggressor's face had put on an expression of pure innocence.

"What… What can I do for you, sir?" Mister Smeeth asked as he emerged with difficulty from behind his desk.

A man was standing on the doorstep. He had thrown his hood back on his shoulder, revealing long shiny dark hair hold back in a neat ponytail. The good quality of his clothes – all black – was showing he was not here to beg a sailor position on one of the ships of the Imperial merchant fleet…

Mister Smeeth shot a worried look at the Khajiit. Should he try to warn the stranger that the feline was a dangerous psychopath? Or would he found himself dead before he could make a move? But the Khajiit was not paying attention to him anymore and was looking at the newcomer with a large welcoming smile on his face.

"Lucien!" the Khajiit exclaimed, looking delighted all of a sudden. "What's up?

"It is all right, sir." Lucien replied to Mister Smeeth, completely ignoring the Khajiit's friendly greeting. "I was just looking for Master J'Ghasta – and I have found him. Good day to you!"

And without adding a word, he turned on his heels and walked away of the Port Authority building.

J'Ghasta cliqued his tongue in direction of Mister Smeeth and roared in laugher when the poor man duck back under his desk, yelping. He then get out of the building and tried to catch on with Lucien who had already got down the stairs and was now elbowing his way in the crowd packed along the quays.

"Hey, Lucien! What are you doing here, mate?" J'Ghasta asked once he caught with him.

No reply. Lucien was looking right in front of him, his jaws clenched. But the latent aggressiveness of his friend did not fluster J'Ghasta unduly.

"So, you came here to tell me goodbye, hey?" the Khajiit continued, grabbing his friend by the shoulder to force him to slow down. "How ni…!"

The Khajiit interrupted himself when his friend, in a great movement of cloak, turned around swiftly to find himself face to face with him. J'Ghasta retreated instinctively as the incensed look on Lucien's suggested he could expect the worst…

"You. Just. _Shut up_!" Lucien snapped, hammering each of his words by poking J'Ghasta on the chest with his forefinger.

The Khajiit rolled his eyes in surprise and raised his hands in an appeasing manner.

"Woah woah, all right…! But… Hey, Lucien, wait!"

The Speaker had already turned his back to him and set off again, striding along toward a lonely silhouette standing by a bag – silhouette which soon revealed to be Belisarius Arius.

The Silencer looked very ill-at-ease without his Dark Brotherhood armour and was trying to keep a low profile. His outfit was quite similar to Lucien's, except he was wearing a burgundy shirt under his dark cloak, the latter being embroidered with silver abstract patterns.

J'Ghasta giggled. The contrast between Lucien and Belisarius was striking. Indeed, if a "normally dressed" Lachance tended to act on women - and sometimes, on certain kind of men… - as a sexual magnet, Arius, on the other hand, sent everyone's libido down their socks. Not that he was hideous, but there was something… _weird_ about him, something very dry and cold which made you feel like dropping everything and retiring in a monastery far from people and civilisation to ponder over the fragility of life.

"Howdy, comrade!" the Khajiit bawled merrily at Arius.

The Silencer had a shy smile.

"Good morning, Honourable Lis… _J'Ghasta._"

He had pronounced the Khajiit's name as if it was going to explode in his mouth.

For obvious security and prudence reasons, the Black Hand had agreed not to refer to their titles in public, but apparently, out of the rigid and well defined framework of the Brotherhood, Arius was completely lost.

"Woah, what a big bag!" J'Ghasta observed as he pointed the sack on the floor. "Carrying around your little cleaning kit, hey, Arius?" he added, winking at the Silencer.

"It's _my_ travelling bag…" Lucien mutters as he loaded the stuff on his back.

There was a pause. J'Ghasta glared at Lucien, and the latter's expression became even more sullen.

"Does this mean you are coming with me, finally?" the Khajiit asked, smiling like a piece of melon.

"Of course I am." Lucien replied between gritted teeth, his eyes flashing with anger. "All your fuss at the pub the other day… _How you dared to accuse me of plotting to take your place?_"

J'Ghasta stayed mute, but he did not make any effort to hide the gleam of amusement in his eyes. Aaaah, yes, he could be such an awful bastard…

If to many Lucien was just a cold, pitiless, andin-control sadistic assassin, J'Ghasta knew his personality was slightly more complex than your basic psychopath-killer-murderer-butcher-who-had-a-terrible-childhood-and-problems-with-his-mum-and-women-in-general.

The Khajiit was also perfectly aware his best friend could not stand seeing his loyalty to the Brotherhood being questioned, and the wound left by the accusations of treason Bellamont had managed to make the Black Hand swallow not so long ago was certainly fresh enough to make the latter jump at any mention of sedition from his part…

J'Ghasta beamed inwardly. Ooooh, being manipulative could be sooooo fun…!

"You have no idea how much I hate you!" Lucien continued, hissing. His left eye was twitching a bit.

"Oh really? And for what? For exploiting the last tiny bits of remorse and humanity buried deep under that thick layer of arrogance, ruthlessness and dandyism?"

"It is always the same! You know I can't refuse _you_ anything, and you take advantage of it!" Lucien snarled, apparently decided not to dwell more the subject of his softer side. "Couldn't you simply ask me to come with you?!"

There was so much bitterness in Lucien's words J'Ghasta almost felt sorry for him. Almost…

"Hmmm. Tell me… If _you_ are coming with me, who did you left in charge?" he asked, scratching his chin and avoiding answering Lucien's question.

There was another pause. The angry expression on Lucien's face gave way to sheer embarrassment and he looked at Arius, apparently searching support. But his Silencer gave a little polite cough which meant something like "you-are-alone-on-this-one".

"Hang on…" J'Ghasta's eyes widened in surprise and shock. "Don't tell me you left…"

The people who were standing or passing near their little group gave a jump when the Khajiit burst out laughing.

"Yes, Arquen is the new Acting-Listener." Lucien said flatly, his eyes narrowing in annoyance as he watched the Khajiit slapping himself on the thighs in joy. "And could you stop laughing your head off, please? It is absolutely_ not_ funny."

"Sorry, but…Ye Gods!" said the Khajiit, wiping a tears. "Even Gak, the Dark Guardian of the Sanctuary, has more brains and leadership abilities than Arquen! It is literally going to be a bloody mess when we will be back!"

J'Ghasta's laughs intensified at the thought and Lucien shrugged, clearly irritated

"Most likely… But stop pretending to be surprised! You knew it was going to be that way, as Arquen is the longest serving member of the Black Hand... And this is what you were looking for, weren't you?" His eyes narrowed. "Even if I am not sure to understand why…"

The Khajiit suddenly stopped laughing and his face took an unconcerned look while he started examining his claws with exaggerated carefulness.

"Weeeeell, you see, I have always thought our beloved Unholy Matron never realised the chance she had to have me as Listener." he said, polishing his claws nonchalantly against his fur. "Thankfully, with Arquen… _leading_ the Brotherhood in our absence, she will soon realised how a valuable leader I am… Why are you looking at me like that?"

Lucien jaw had dropped and his arms were dangling along his body.

"Do you know I almost got pulverised by the Night Mother when I told her I wanted to go with you!?"

"Yeah, but, hey! You're still alive!"

"That's not the problem!" Lucien shouted. "The problem is about to know whether you are completely mad or not!"

"No, I am not mad, my dear friend. I am just a really insecure person." J'Ghasta replied very firmly and seriously. "I need people to show me their love, respect and affection all the time."

Lucien rolled his eyes and Arius chuckled – very politely of course.

"One day, you will get us killed with your stupid plans…" Lucien grumbled.

J'Ghasta gave a good slap in Lucien's back, and the latter's winced when his vertebrae creaked sinisterly.

"Aaaaaw, poor Lulu!" exclaimed the Khajiit, opening his arms wide to give his friend a hug. "Come here and give your favourite feline a kissie…!"

Lucien's face turned into a mask of utter disgust.

"Are you becoming senile?"

"Naaah…! I am just so happy you come with me!"

"The more I know you, the more I regret I did not break a leg the day we met." Lucien said, shaking his head. "And now, you'll excuse me, I would like to salute Arius and check a few things with him… Why don't you go to check if the cute lady over there needs help?"

At the mention of the words "cute lady", J'Ghasta's ears had straightened up on his head and a predatory gleam had appeared in his eyes. He winked at Lucien, and went away with a rolling gait and with his chest stuck out. Lucien rolled his eyes and then reported his attention on his Silencer, who was – it did not do harm just this once – looking openly amused at the show offered by the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and his apprentice.

"All right, Arius. You know what you have to do, don't you?"

"Yes, Spea… _Lucien_. I will keep an eye on the Sanctuary and the Black Hand for you."

"And as I said, you can use Fort Farragut as your base to carry out your duty while I am away. I think I left and fresh milk in the cupboard. Feel free to help yourself – but for the Dread Father's sake, please don't touch the apples...!"

"As you wish, Spea… _Lucien_."

"And don't forget to take Shadowmere out at least twice a day. She tends to get a bit cranky if she can't kill innocent animals or people on a regular basis…" the Speaker continued.

"Of course, Spea… _Lucien_. And don't worry, I am sure your mare and I will be excellent friends."

"Good." Lucien patted awkwardly his Silencer on the shoulder. "I guess it is time for us to go now…"

"Oh, Spea… _Lucien_, before you leave..." Arius started as he rummaged through the bag he was carrying. He then produced a little black wooden box he handed to Lucien.

"A little 'survival pack' of my invention…" Arius explained as Lucien took the box, raising inquisitive eyebrows. "You will find everything necessary in case of extreme dirtiness, like tongs to pick up cockroaches and lice in the straw mattress of the taverns, some soap, different kind of sponges, two dusters…"

Lucien tried to keep a straight face as he listened to Arius enumerating the contents of the box.

Belisarius Arius was a great guy. Well, "great" in the Dark Brotherhood sense of the word, that is to say he was a committed assassin, never discussed orders and showed extreme cleverness. But this "survival pack" of his was certainly the weirdest and creepiest thing Lucien had ever seen – and he had seen many.

Nevertheless, the Speaker could not see how he could refuse Arius' present… It would have been like kicking a puppy. And if Lucien did not mind killing a puppy and chopping it to pieces, humiliation was something he never really understood or approved.

"Er… You managed to stuff all those things into that little box?" Lucien interrupted Arius, who was now praising the qualities of his home-made disinfectant.

"Yes, Spea… _Lucien_. You see, tidiness is the key!" A gleam of pure madness flashed in Arius' eyes. "One place for each thing, each thing at its place."

"Er… Yes… Yes, true, very true…"

Lucien was determined not to annoy his Silencer on the subject. The Dark Brotherhood was a bunch of homicidal maniacs and psychopaths, but some were definitely more psychopathic than others…

The Speaker played a bit with the little box in his hands, rolling it between his palms. Arius was watching him with his eyes full of hope and Lucien was desperately seeking something nice to say to thank him. But fortunately, this was the moment J'Ghasta chose to interrupt their conversation. Apparently, his little talk with the girl did not go well given the mark on hand he had on his left cheek…

"Yeah, yeah… All that is very nice, but we'd better go now." The Khajiit growled, massaging his cheek and watching darkly the girl going away with a scornful pout on her face. "See you, Arius, and take care!"

Saying this, J'Ghasta grabbed Lucien by the collar of his shirt and dragged him in his wake.

"_Gargl_bye, Arius!" said Lucien, trying to wave his Silencer goodbye while preventing J'Ghasta from strangling him with his collar.

"Take care, Spea… _Lucien_!"

The Silencer waved them goodbye and literally disappeared in the crowd.

"Strange guy, this Belisarius Arius…" J'Ghasta said thoughtfully as the duo of assassins started walking aimlessly along the busy quays.

"Not weirder than any of us." Lucien said, readjusting his shirt and coat and feeling the need to defend his Silencer. "Maybe his little fussy ways make it more obvious in his case."

J'Ghasta shrugged and reported his attention on the surroundings. The travellers and sailors had now given way to the fishermen who had come back from their night fishing campaign and were selling the fruit of their work on the quays.

"Freeeesh fish. Freeeesh fish, ladies and gentlemen! Get your freeeesh fish here!

The cries of the fishmongers had rounded up the matrons of the Imperial City who were packing around the stalls, trying to negotiate the best price for their whiting fillets.

"All this is well, but we still don't have a boat to go to Elsweyr…" J'Ghasta said.

"You sure you want to go by boat?" Lucien asked. The Speaker was well aware of his friend's aversion for anything related to water, and his choice to travel by the sea had surprised him a lot.

"Yep. Even if I have not been able to find evidence – apparently, no one remembered to have seen a pregnant girl – I am convinced Trencavel took the Sophie to Senchal. Heavily pregnant as she is, she can hardly go there on horseback or by foot."

"We could steal a fish boat…" J'Ghasta wondered out loud.

Lucien shook his head.

"None of these boats would be able to support such a trip. They are too small… and they reek of fish…"

J'Ghasta sighed heavily and kicked into a little stone which landed on the head of a seagull which was feasting on fishes guts dropped there by the fishmongers.

"So, what do you propose?" the Khajiit asked as he watched the seagull flying away while

"To wait here for the _Endeavour_ to come ba…?"

J'Ghasta stopped when he turned toward his friend. Lucien was glaring at something.

"Hey, dude! Are you listening to me?"

"Don't get too enthusiastic yet…" Lucien said in a soft voice. "But I think I have found the solution to our problems…"

J'Ghasta followed his friend's glance and his eyes fell onto the "Bloated Float". The two assassins glared at the floating tavern for a while before then looked back at each other.

"Are you pondering what I am pondering…?" Lucien asked, smirking.

"I think so." The Khajiit replied, beaming. "And I guess this boat is big enough – and it don't stink of fish… but … it would not be wise and sensible, wouldn't it?"

The smile of the Speaker of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary grew wider.

"And since when do we care about what is wise?"

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Sigrid was laying on her hammock, reading in her tiny cabin aboard the _Sophie,_ one of the two ships which sailed regularly between the Imperial City and Senchal. This boat was under the experienced command of Captain Jack Maubrey, a former officer of the Imperial Navy who was tired of epic and bloody naval battles and had decided to end up his career in the less heroic but much more lucrative merchant marine.

The Captain piloted his ship very professionally. It had been only one day they had left the Imperial Harbour and they had already reached the Topal Sea. But now they arrived in the Topal Bay, they were not benefiting anymore from the mild winds of the Nibean basin as well as the current of the Nibenay River, and the winds had suddenly stopped blowing. As a result, the boat was stuck in the in the middle of the Topal Sea, about fifty miles away from the mouth of the river, and Captain Maubrey had no idea when they could start moving again.

"_Sailing is not a pe__rfect science, miss." _he had replied to an impatient and annoyed Sigrid. _"The wind will rise again, but don't ask me when because I have no clue."_

No need to say this had seriously clouded Sigrid's mood. If she had felt quite safe first when she had seen the walls of the Imperial City disappeared from sight as the_ Sophie_ sailed south, she was now feeling much more worried. The Dark Brotherhood was almost certainly on her tail and every lost minute was increasing the risk for her to get caught.

"_To get caught_…" The words echoed sinisterly in the girl's head. No need to be particularly imaginative to picture what would happen to her if her Brothers and Sisters could lay their hands on her, especially Lucien Lachance who had certainly not forgotten their last confrontation in the Sanctuary…

A familiar voice with metallic accent interrupted her in her gloomy thoughts.

"_We__ should go out to get some fresh air." _Clairvoix said. _"It's a shame we are locked here instead of enjoying the fresh sea breeze."_

Sigrid raised her head from the book she was reading and looked at the sword with eyes red from too much reading in a rather dark place. Clairvoix was lying on one of the shelves by her hammock, and the girl has taken it out of its scabbard.

"There is no such thing as a 'fresh sea breeze' outside, Clairvoix, and that's the problem." she replied sullenly.

"_Aaaah, come on__!"_the sword exclaimed, exasperated._ "Don't you think you have spent enough time on Scribonius' books? Let's get out!"_

"Thanks a lot, but… no."

Clairvoix sighed and tiny reddish sparks ran on the blade. The girl narrowed her eyes and gave a big sigh as she perfectly knew what it meant…

Even if Clairvoix was a sword, it was also a magic one and as such, it had compensated its lack of body and face by developing the ability to express its feeling through a very complex range of coloured magical auras and little flashes of light. The auras tended to express diffuse feelings, while sparks and flashes were the expression of intense ones. Of course, the colours also played a part. Pink meant joy, red expressed anger and anxiety, apple green stood for fear and rage, yellow for distrust… And once one had mastered this code, it was very easy to work out what red sparks meant…

"Why are you so nervous, Clairvoix?" Sigrid asked the sword bluntly.

"_I'm not!"_

"Yes. You are." said Sigrid, raising an amused eyebrow. "You make little red sparkles when you are worried."

"_I don't!"_ the sword protested vehemently - producing as it spoke a little spray of red and orange sparks. The girl tried to suppress a giggle.

"_Yeah, right, I am a bit worried."_Clairvoix admitted, contrite._ "But it's nothing, really." _

Sigrid's amused eyebrow turned into an ironic one.

"A 'nothing' which makes one of the most powerful artefact in Tamriel edgy? Am sorry, but it is difficult to swallow."

There was a pause during which the girl and the sword gave a go at a mental glaring competition. And this time, Sigrid won.

"_All right. __I am going to tell you." _the sword muttered._ "But you must promise me you won't laugh…"_

Sigrid put a hand on her heart and raised the second in the typical position of someone taking an oath.

"I swear!" she said in a very serious tone, before her face took a mischievous expression. "Now, tell me… What is it?"

"_Well... I__t's…I… I- am-afraid-of-the-sea."_ replied the sword in a breath.

The silence following Clairvoix' declaration was suddenly broke up by a roar of laugher.

"_You promised not to laugh!"_ the sword protested, vexed as Sigrid was slitting her side with laugher.

"Afraid of the sea?" the girl asked, still smiling. "You mean, of sinking and drowning?"

"_Kind of…_."

"But you are immortal!"

"_Oye! And that's pretty much the problem."_the sword whined._ "Can you imagine? Spending the eternity in the abyssal plains…!"_

"Oh yeah, I can imagine perfectly…"

A dreamy smile appeared on Sigrid's face at the thought. Yeah, the abyssal plains... So dark, so quiet, so peaceful... No one to bother you or to remind you painful memories…

Because, unfortunately for her – but also quite logically…– she was not the only passenger on board of the "Sophie". There were about fifteen other persons travelling with her. Most of them were simple merchants travelling to Elsweyr to buy merchandise or bargain new deals, but three had particularly caught her attention.

First, there were Lord Hetman and Lady Llaala Thelas, a couple of bourgeois Dunmers who were going to Senchal for both the wedding of a friend and business. They were people of a certain age who considered their 'knowledge' of life as great enough to be worth sharing with everyone, and Lord Thelas had already talked everyone' head up with his supposed adventures with the Nerevarine.

Nevertheless, they were kind of… nice, and Sigrid could not help but like them, despite the fact Lady Thelas kept lavishing her advice to have a "successful pregnancy"… Sigrid had a pout when she remembered the Dunmer's enthusiastic conversation on the subject. As if any pregnancy could be "successful"…!

But the worst of all was certainly that Bosmer, Endras, who presented himself as a bard. At the thought, Sigrid's lips curled up in a disdainful smirk.

Endras had immediately noticed Sigrid's interest for his instruments and had started playing her a few pieces of his composition. Things were not going to bad first and Sigrid was quite happy to meet a fellow musician but the Bosmer's affectionate condescension toward her quickly incensed her. He had treated her as if she was completely retarded and

"_You see, it is a harp."_ he had told Sigrid, producing in front of her a wonderful instrument which looked a lot like her former and beloved harp. "_A present from Lord Ocato." _

"_And why would Lord Ocato offer you such a present?"_

Sigrid's tone had been extremely hostile, but the Elf had not seemed to mind and had looked pleased with himself.

"_You see, he would like me to compose an epic poem about Martin Septim's and his companions' fight against Merhunes Dagon." _

Her jaw had dropped out of incredulity, and Endras had taken the girl's shocked silencer for plain admiration and had handed her a little round object.

"_You are such a nice girl. Here, take that little ocarina, I don't have much use of it."_

The girl clenched her teeth. She did not know why she took the flute. She should have rather try to put it up his as… _nose_. But it was stronger than her; she had to take it… At least, she had not thanked the Elf.

Of course, Sigrid's companions had quickly shown interest for the presence of a lone pregnant young lady on the _Sophie_, which had forced the girl to come up with a false identity and a background to make people cry their eyes out.

So, she had introduced herself to her companion as Miss Doe. Miss Berthe Doe, to be more precise. She had been tempted for a second to choose Jane as a first name, but even if she found it funny at first, it was probably too weird and would have attracted attention too much. Berthe, on the other hand, sounded plainly boring, the kind of names worn by girls who spent their life in farms, producing children every year and doing the housework of a violent husband.

Berthe Doe... A perfect name for Sigrid Trencavel, one of the greatest artists and heroes of Tamriel, now a perfect nobody who had lost her husband and was now heading to Elsweyr to find a cure for her beloved sick daddy, the only living family she had…

"Yeah…" Sigrid repeated. "The abyss...It must such a wonderful quiet and relaxing place…"

"_Quiet and relaxing__, the abyss? Very boring, you mean!"_ continued Clairvoix_ "With whom would I be supposed to have a good chat with? Tunas and shrimps?"_

"There are also semi-sapient species like Morrigans… Or, given you do more into the 'Dark Side', Krakens and Leviathans." replied Sigrid, a faraway look in her eyes. "I am sure talking non-stop with gigantic and evil sea creatures is highly enjoyable…"

"_Instead of saying insanities, why not playing us something with your ocarina, then?"_

Sigrid sat up and looked at Endras' ocarina which was standing on her little bedside table just next to the small Stone Dragon she had… er, "borrowed" from Thoronir. It was one of the most common sorts, made out of baked clay with a sort of distorted round shape and with five holes in it. To make the object looking a bit more attractive, the craftsman had painted it blue with little flower motives and had added a string so the ocarina could be worn around the neck.

She made a pout and took the little flute in her hands. It had been months she had not touched an instrument or even tried to play and it seemed that her little stay in the Void had killed all her artistic abilities.

With a sigh, she brought the instrument to her mouth and started to play a few notes. First, her fingers seemed completely numb but after a while, they became more and more agile and she managed to play a few tunes without making too many false notes.

"_Er… Sigrid?"_ Clairvoix asked slowly, interrupting the girl in a trill.

"Whaaaaat?" she barked.

"_Have you seen it?"_

"Seen what?"

"_The light. In your bag__…. Something was lighting in your bag, but it went out when you stopped playing."_

Sigrid frowned.

"What do you…?"

"_Shush! Just play again!"_

The girl made a pout but obeyed. And this time, she saw it. There was indeed a yellow light coming from her bag. She dropped the ocarina on the shelves by Clairvoix, got herself out of the hammock with difficulty and run toward the bag in which she started to

"What could it be? There is nothing magical in that bag!" she exclaimed, emptying it on the ground. "A jar of anchovies, books, books, more food, books…"

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. She put her hand in her bag and retrieved a little cubic thing from the mess on the ground.

"_The datadice! Of course!"_ Clairvoix exclaimed when Sigrid flaunted the object to the sword.

The girl then put the datadice on the ground and fetched her ocarina. She then started to play again, her eyes riveted on the little cube. After a few second of music, it started to glow slowly, magical sparks running on the patterns engraved on each of its side.

"_By Sithis, this is a__mazing…"_whispered Clairvoix. "_It reacts to music! The code of that thing is linked to_ music_!"_

Sigrid nodded absenmindly to Clairvoix' comment and played with her ocarina again. The datadice produced a pulsing yellow aura again which turned red before vanishing.

"Tell me Clairvoix… Do you think you can decipher the code of that thing?"

"_Me? __Bwahahah, of course! As if there was anything magic which could resist me in this world…! All I need is to…"_

But Sigrid never knew what Clairvoix needed as the sword's voice was covered by yells coming from outside.

"Everybody on deeeeeck! Everybody on deeeeeeeeeck!" yelled someone who was running along the passage way out of her cabin, banging on the doors.

Sigrid got up and walked toward her door she opened a fraction.

"What's going on?" she asked to the sailor who was standing outside.

"Everybody on deeeeeeeeeeeeeeck!" replied the latter, continuing to do his racket along the small corridor.

Sigrid rolled her eyes. It looked like if she wanted to get an explanation, she would better to go on the _bloody_ "deeeeeeeeeeeeeeck".

"_Hey! Don't live me alone here!"_ yelled Clairvoix as she was about to get out of the cabin.

Sigrid took the sword, adjusted it on her belt and, after a moment of hesitation, took the datadice and put it in one of her pockets. She then swiftly left her cabin and reached the deck.

The rest of the passengers had already gathered on the starboard side of the ship, looking at something in the distance and talking animatedly. Endras and the Thelas were there as well, leaning on the ship' rail.

"Oh, Miss Doe!" exclaimed lady Thelas as she spotted Sigrid who was coming toward them. "It is teeeeeeerrible!"

Sigrid raised a dubitative eyebrow. Lady Thelas sounded more excited than terrified or appalled…

"What's going on?" the girl asked for the third time.

"Pirates!" replied Lord Thelas, pointing at something offshore. Sigrid scanned the horizon, and after a while finally managed to spot a little dark dot on the blue sea.

"Isn't it awful?" asked Lady Thelas, her eyes gleaming of excitement.

"Have they seen us?" Sigrid asked, even if she perfectly knew the answer.

"Very likely…" replied a voice behind her back. The girl turned around to find herself face to face with Captain Maubrey. His face was tense with worry. "They went about a few minutes ago, and should catch on us in less than twenty minutes."

Sigrid's eyes narrowed. Indeed, the little dot was growing bigger and bigger and was coming right at them. She turned back toward the captain, with a puzzled look on her face.

"Hang on… How can they move while we are stuck here? There is not a shade of wind!"

"The _Black Pea_doesn't need that, and it's what makes it dangerous." Captain Maubrey explained. "You see the little dark smoke stream rising above the boat? It's there because the ship is powered by some kind of machinery."

"Machinery?" Sigrid repeated, dumfounded.

"The stupid ship is a relic from the Dwemer civilisation. Damn Dwemers and their mechanics!" the Captain growled.

"So, we have no way to escape…" Endras said in a breath. Sigrid noticed with great pleasure the Bosmer looked terrified.

"Nope." Captain Maubrey replied flatly.

"Oh dear Gods, we are going to be boarded by terrible and merciless pirates!" Lady Thelas exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She then grabbed Sigrid by the shoulders and started to shake her. "They are certainly going to abduct us and fall madly in love with us. But despite this, they will sell us on an exotic market and after that, we will be bought by the chief of some lost tribe, a rude and uncultivated beast who will be captivated by the sophisticated creatures we are and who will fall madly in love with us and… _What_?" she added as she realised everyone was looking at her with eyes like saucers.

"Don't rely too much on the romantic side of pirates…" Captain Maubrey said, grinding his teeth. "I know this ship and its crew. Captain Marc Barrow is a colossus and a boor who only worships money and cruelty as long as it entertains him. Last week, he boarded a vessel and made the whole crew walk the plank – after having disembowelled some of them to attract the sharks. And then he killed the sharks."

A heavy silence fell among the passengers. Even Lady Thelas seemed far less enthusiastic now.

"Should we get ready to fight then, Captain?" asked Lord Thelas, his chest stucking out, or given his important stoutness, his belly dangling down above his pants. "You can count on my sword! I know I am an old man, but I don't know if I told you when the Nerevarine and I went to…"

"No, sir. We are outnumbered, that would be madness." Captain Maubrey interrupted him to the greatest pleasure of the other passengers who apparently would not have survived another cession of "The Awesome Adventures of Lord Thelas".

"Can't we outdistance them, then?" Endras suggested.

"With no wind? Do you volunteer to blow in the sails, Master Endras?" the Captain asked sarcastically. "No, we have no option but to surrender, hoping for them to spare our lives. No that it pleases me, but…"

"You're going to capitulate?!" Sigrid and other passengers protested at the same time.

The Captain shrugged.

"And what do you want us to do, Miss Doe? We are a merchant ship, not a battle one. And those bastards perfectly know it…"he said between gritted teeth, shooting a dark glance at the Black Pea. The boat was now perfectly discernible, and Sigrid could see its monstrous ram at the prow. It was all in metal, shaped like a big fist, and given the speed of the_Black Pea_, it would make sort work of the _Sophie_'s hull.

"At least, can't we try to trap them?" Sigrid begged. "They would not expect us to resist and so we could surprise them…!"

The Captain patted her gently on the shoulder.

"Listen, my dear. I told you we are outnumbered. And admitting we manage to surprise them and win the fight, it would at the price of a bloodbath, and I don't want that. So, if you want to make yourself useful, just try to keep a low profile." His eyes then fall on her belly. "I am not sure what's the pirates and slave merchants' policy regarding pregnant woman, but I guess they would be happy have a 'two for the price of one' article on their ..."

And without waiting for the girl's answer, he walked toward his crew, who had gathered a few feet away from the group of passengers. He exchanged a few words with the first mate, said a few encouraging words to his sailors who looked positively terrified and went to the sterncastle where he replaced the man who was at the helm of the boat.

"Reduce the sails!" he yelled to the crew.

Slowly, the _Black Pea_ gained distance on the Sophie and finally caught with it on the starboard side. Sigrid braced herself to face a series of sinister looking fellows holding knives in between there teeth. But to her greatest surprise, there was no living soul on the deck of the pirates' boat…

"Where the Oblivion are they?" Lord Thelas whispered. But the only answer he got was the calls of the seagulls which were flying above their head.

"_I don't like that much…"_ growled Clairvoix. Sigrid nodded and grabbed its sheath to reassure herself.

The silence was getting heavier as the seconds chimed out. Lady Thelas was clutching mechanically his husband's arm, Endras was chewing his nails nervously and Lord Thelas was frowning so much his eyes could barely been seen. The nervousness on the Sophie was so thick Sigrid could almost feel its taste.

And suddenly, the pirates appeared out of nowhere, sliding along ropes and yelling the traditional "yaaargh!". The passengers surged back in a mad panic on the port side to put some distance between them and the pirates.

The latter quickly and very professionally neutralised the crew – disarming them and chaining them to one another. A little group got down to explore the bowels of the _Sophie_'s while the rest reported their attention on the little group of passengers…

"_So… What do we do, now?"_ asked Clairvoix in Sigrid's head as the pirates walked toward them, sniggering.

"Nothing for the moment…" The girl gritted her teeth. "Captain Maubrey was right. There are far too many of them."

"_To__o many? You are kidding! With a nice electric spell, we could make them…"_

"No Clairvoix. It would be far too dangerous for the crew and the other passengers."

The pirates stopped a few feet from the little group and gave way to a massive silhouette. The new comer was wearing fine black clothes and a tricorne. A long silver sabre was dangling by his side. He was followed by a man whose face was covered in scars and who had a wooden leg.

"_Ye gods…"_ Clairvoix said in a breath. _"This guy is bigger than Gogron!"_

"Good day to you, ladies and gentlemen!" said the man, saluting the terrorised travellers with his tricorne. "I am Captain Marc Barrow and this is Mister Stark, my first mate aboard the _Black Pea_. We are the greatest pirates of the Topal Sea and you are my prisoners."

Marc Barrow put his hat back on his head and took a few steps forward. The planks creaked under his weight.

"In order to avoid us a tedious battle you are going to loose anyway, I strongly suggest you to drop your weapons and let my men dispose of you. Any question? Yes, Madame?"

Lady Thelas blushed and lower her arm as Barrow's glance fall on her.

"Are… Are you going to abduct us and sell on an exotic market?" squeaked the old woman, who did not seem to be thrilled at the perspective anymore.

"Yes, at least for the youngest men - and the young girl over there." Barrow replied, making a move of his chin toward Sigrid. "But concerning your particular case, I am afraid you are far too… _faded_ to be sold anywhere exotic and so will directly end up your life in the belly of the sharks."

At the words, Lady Thelas' face turned into a mask of pure terror… and she fainted. Endras tried to catch her in her fall, but she was far too tall and big for him and he found himself stuck under the Dunmer.

"Oh, a bit emotional, isn't she?" said Captain Barrow. Throaty laugh answered him.

"_No one is going to feed shark__s with my wife!"_ roared Lord Thelas.

The old Dunmer ran toward Barrow, his belly going up and down at his pace. He raised his sword above his head and tried to hit Barrow's head. But the pirate was not standing there anymore. Despite his imposing stature, he was quick and supple as a cat and had made a sideway step which allowed him to throw an incredibly violent kick in Thelas' chest. A sound similar to the one of broken wood informed everyone Barrow just broke his opponent several ribs.

"Nice one, fatty, but that won't be enough to get rid of me." Barrow said, taking his own blade out.

Lord Thelas was trying to get up, but he was breathing with difficulty. A bit of blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth and his wide eyes where trying to follow the pirate who was turning around him looking like a cat ready to play with his prey.

"In general, I don't like damaging the goods, but like your wife, you have lost your freshness long ago, so I'll make a little exception…"

Barrow put the tip of his sword under Thelas' chin and forced him to get up.

"_Sigrid, let'__s do something! Barrow is going to kill him!"_ Clairvoix said in the girl's head.

"_It is his problems!" _she replied mentally. _"No one asked him to play the heroes! And we may have a chance to get out of this if we stay quiet!"_

"_Your are not going to let that courageous__ but silly fool being cut to pieces by this psychopath?!"_ the sword exclaimed, incredulous_. "What's wrong with you? A few months ago, you would have come immediately to his rescue!"_

"_I am sick and tired of helping people! It had only brought me troubles so far!__ All I want is to find a way to bring Martin and Vicente back! The rest doesn't matter!"_

"_And what do you think Martin would have thought of your attitude now?!"_

Sigrid looked like as if she had been slapped in the face. Her eyes widened in anger and she was about to snap back something but got interrupted by the horrified screams of her companions. Barrow had raised his sword and was about to run Thelas through.

"_How dared you to bring Martin into this?!"_ Sigrid shouted mentally.

"_All right, all right, I apologise!_" Clairvoix yelled back._ "But by Sithis' beard, do something!_

Sigrid clenched her fists and closed her eyes. Around her, the passengers' screams intensified, and…

A sarcastic clap echoed in the air.

"Ooooh, the great fearless pirates of the Topal Sea attack old men who are unable to defend themselves." said a voice. "Is that me, or is your reputation usurped, Captain Barrow?"

Captain Barrow frowned, suspended his move, and with an amused smile, turned around to face Sigrid, who was standing in front of him, smirking. She had taken Clairvoix out of its scabbard and relying on it as on a cane.

"Do you know to whom you are talking to, little Madam?"

"I think I pretty much do, yeah." Sigrid replied, sarcastic. "I am talking to a Captain who is named after a garden tool and is not fucking able to give a proper name to his boat!"

"Oooooh…" said the crew of the _Black Pea_ and the passengers of the _Sophie_ in a harmonious and horrified choir.

Captain Barrow's smile froze and one corner of his mouth twitched nervously a few times. But soon he recovered his blasé composure tainted with a little smirk.

"Oh… And says who, may I ask?"

Sigrid thrusted her chest out in what she hoped to be an impressive move.

"I am Miss Berthe Doe."

The Captain looked at Sigrid up and down, before his eyes finally stop on her tummy. A terrible disdainful expression painted all over his face.

"_You?_ A_ miss_…?" he asked, ironic.

"My… husband died before we got married." the girl growled. She hated having to justify herself and she felt mortified when Captain Barrow burst out laughing.

"Dead? Or did he simply run away when he realised he got pregnant such a lump?"

Sigrid went white under the insult. She opened her mouth a few times to reply, but no sound got out her throat. Around them, nothing could be heard except for the calls of the seagulls which were not aware of the drama happening under them.

"So?" Captain Barrow continued with his hands on his hips, bending over Sigrid who looked so annoyed se could not speak. "We're a little less chatty now, aren't we…?"

Barrow stopped and rolled his eyes when his first mate gave a polite cough behind him and poked him in the ribs.

"What do you want, Mister Stark? Can't you see I am a bit busy cutting down this little silly goose?"

"Aye aye sir, I know. But with all due respect, but you'd better take a look at the sky..."

Something in the voice of his first mate made Barrow think he really had to take a look. And when he was the sky, his facial expression changed completely.

The atmosphere around the boat had changed completely. Dark clouds were gathering just above the two boats and flashes of lighting as well as thunder ripped the air. The surface of the sea, which was perfectly smooth a few moments ago, was now covered in little waves which were making both ships pitching.

"What is that nonsense, Stark!" barked Captain Barrow. "The sky was perfectly clear!"

But the first mate did not listen. He was looking in horror at something which was apparently standing right behind the captain.

With a yell of rage, Barrow turned back toward Sigrid and his eyes widened in surprise and panic. She seemed to be in a trance. She was standing still, and was holding it with her arms tensed in front of her. A purple aura made of tiny flashes of light was surrounding her, and her hair and clothes were flapping around her as if there was wind – except there was no wind.

A worried whisper rose from the pirates and the crew of the _Sophie_.

"Black Magic!" someone yelled.

"Shut up!" Barrow snapped in the direction from which the remark had come. He then turned back toward Sigrid. "And stop that immediately, you witch, or you are dead!" Barrow yelled, menacing the girl with the tip of his sabre.

Sigrid seemed to get out of her trance. Her green eyes lost their dreamy look and riveted on Barrow. The latter swallowed, because what he could read in them was is future death.

"I said stopped, witch!" he repeated in an effort to sound authoritarian and in-control but there was something like a tremor in his voice.

An awful smile painted all over the girl's face.

"So, now, a witch I am, hey?" she hissed in a voice with metallic echoes. "And do you know what witches do to people they don't like?"

"What?" Barrow squeaked. "What do you mean?"

Sigrid smile grew larger and the pirate noticed that little magic sparks were running along her teeth.

"They turn them into… _toads_!"

And as she stressed the last word, she pointed her sword toward the Captain Barrow's chest. The latter's mouth formed a perfect "O" before he disappeared into a flash of light.

No one was really sure what exactly happened next, because everyone was definitely willing_not_ to remember. But if they did a little effort of memory, they could describe how, in the flash of light, they saw Barrow's body taking different shapes, all as repulsive as the others. But the Gods were merciful, and after a while, it stopped.

Everything came back to normal. The sea was smooth again and the dark clouds were gone. But no one really cared much about the weather as all living souls on the boat seemed engrossed in the contemplation of the little pile of clothes which used to be Captain Marc Barrow's.

Some people gasped when the clothes moved a bit. A small head with a pair of protruding eyes got out from under the shirt, and slowly what looked like a little batrachian emerged. It was greyish, had four legs, but also had been gifted with a nice pair of antennas and a short tail.

The creature looked at the assembly of people who were glaring at him, yawned and took a few steps toward Sigrid.

The girl was shaking a bit, clearly looking exhausted, and she was looking at the toad as if she could not believe she was the one who made it. The toad raised its head toward her and opened a large mouth.

"_Rabbit_?" it said.

Sigrid bent forward – almost collapsing on the ground in the process – and took the little toad in her hands. Then, she realised that everyone, especially the pirates, was looking at her.

"What? You have never seen a toad?" she asked them curtly.

The pirates were not sure what to reply, hence a good half said "yes", while the other said "no" and vice versa when they realised they disagreed on the answer to give. Sigrid sighed.

"Now, you will be kind enough to pack up and go, because I am definitely not in the mood to support the sight of your ugly faces anymore…"

The pirates did not need to be told twice. As one man, they turned on their heels and ran way toward the _Black Pea_.

"No, no. Wait a minute. I have another idea...!" Sigrid exclaimed in their back. At the words, the pirates froze in their full speed run and their head sunk in between their shoulder in fear. Then, they turned around slowly. The girl was smiling friendly at them.

"_We_ are going to pack and go on the _Black Pea_." "And _you _guys will stay _here_…"

7777777777777777777

The "Bloated Float" inn, the only floating tavern in Cyrodiil, was definitely a very popular tavern.

Well, of course, popular really meant _popular_. The place was certainly not as upper-crust as the "King and Queen" tavern and the customers were not renowned for the refinement of their manners. But J'Ghasta had always liked it, and anyway it could not be as worst as the Brigadoon pub and its "all-around-the-Multiverse" clientele.

"Oye, I feel like I spend my life in bars!" said J'Ghasta, beaming.

Lucien shot his companion a dark glance before he started scanning the surroundings methodically in search of potential sources of problems...

Ormil, the manager of the pub, was standing behind his bar, chatting with a few customers. Standing not far from him was Graman gro-Marad, his associate and bouncer.

"_Right. Big muscled Orc. Source of problems number one identified."_ Lucien thought.

The assassin took a mental note and continued his scanning. Random customers, random customers, plenty of other random customers... He frowned a bit when he noticed that some Imperial Officers were sited at a table in a corner and nudged J'Ghasta who was very busy winking at one of the waitresses. Lucien sighed heavily.

"J'Ghasta... Won't you mind focusing a bit on our mission, please?"

"But I am very focused..." the Khajiit replied, apparently having difficulties to get himself out of the contemplation of the waitress' impressive boobs. "What's the problem?"

Lucien did his best not to roll his eyes.

"In case you have not noticed, the tavern is full of people we must get rid off if we want to carry out our plan!" he said between gritted teeth.

"Let's kill them all!"

The Khajiit looked completely hypnotised and was drooling a bit. It took Lucien all his self-control ability not to slap him in the face.

"_J'Ghasta!_"

"Yeah, yeah, right! Do you really need to yell all the time?" the Khajiit complained.

"Only when you are acting as a complete pervert. And now, give me a hand to evacuate all the people here _without killing them all_."

"No worries, dude!" J'Ghasta said with a nasty smile and rubbing his hands. "I have an idea. All I need is your flint stones and a bit of tinder... Thanks. And now, all you need to do is to get yourself a beer and enjoy the show…!"

Lucien looked surprised, but J'Ghasta seemed very sure of himself, so he obeyed without making further comments. He watched the Khajiit slipping silently through the doors which led to the bowels of the tavern, went to the bar to order himself a drink and waited.

But he did not have to wait for too long, because just after he got his beer, the doors which lead to the bowels of the "Bloated Float" slammed open to give way to a completely panicked J'Ghasta. Lucien smiled. One could only admire the Khajiit's acting abilities...

"Fire!" the latter yelled at the top of his voice to cover the noise in the room. "There is fire in the kitchen!"

A heavy silence fall onto the crowd gathered in the tavern. People had suspended their moves and where glaring at J'Ghasta with eyes like saucers.

"Whuuut did he say?" asked a drunkard from one corner of the room.

J'Ghasta palm-faced and looked Aetheriusward, whispering something like "_why me_?!" before he reported his attention on the clientele of the "Bloated Float".

"You are completely retarded or what?!" he barked, pointing at some smoke which was getting out from the door behind him. "The bloody stoves are on _fire_, you bunch of arseholes! _Fire_! You know, red and very _very hot_!!"

J'Ghasta's remark acted on people as a shock treatment. Indeed, even if some of the customers had spent their whole life in the Imperial City with his buildings made from stones, many others came from cities or villages where constructions in wood were the rule and where fires were the second source of death just behind contagious diseases...

As a result, in less than a minute, the bar was completely empty, apart from Ormil, Graman, J'Ghasta and Lucien who was still quietly sipping his beer. The manager was looking at the empty room with eyes like saucers, and he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of the water...

"_What__ on Nirn have you done!?"_ he finally exploded, pointing hysterically at J'Ghasta.

The Khajiit gave him one of his typical beaming smiles.

"Well, as I said, the stoves were on fire."

"_There-is-no-stoves-aboard-the-Bloated-Float_!" Ormil screamed, stamping his foot on the floor. "And what are you still doing here, you?" he barked at Lucien, who was still leaning on his elbow at the bar.

"I am with this guy." the assassin replied very calmly, pointing at J'Ghasta. "And I have not finished my beer."

Ormil's eyes narrowed and he calmed down a bit. J'Ghasta smiled. Apparently, the High Elf had just realised with whom he was dealing, and the Khajiit did not miss the little glance he and the Orc exchanged...

"All right. Why did you do that?"

"I did that for us to speak in a quiet environment…"

Ormil's eyes narrowed a little more and behind him, Graman the Orc made his knuckles creaked in a very obvious fashion.

"Yeah? And to speak about what, pray?"

A fat purse landed into the bar in front of him.

"My friend and I would like to rent your boat." J'Ghasta said.

Ormil blinked, glared at the purse for a while, and then at J'Ghasta before his eyes met Graman's. The two associates burst out laughing.

"To rent the Floated Bloat!" Ormil repeated, shading a tear. "No way man! This place is far too profitable for me to give it up!"

"No, no, you misunderstand me there." J'Ghasta explained. "I want to rent your boat to _sail_with it."

There was a silence, and then Ormil's face shut completely.

"Graman... Kick me those two clowns out!" he growled.

But Graman had not made a move toward J'Ghasta that Lucien was already on him, his right hand pointing a dagger at the Orc's throat and a fire spell ready to be cast on his left hand.

"Say hello to Bono **(1)** the Clown!" the assassin said cheerfully. "Wanna see some of my tricks?"

"All right, we really wanted to ask nicely." J'Ghasta said slowly, a nasty gleam in the eyes. "But I am afraid we will have to resort to the good old methods..."

**(1)**Bono the Clown is the Nirnian equivalent of Bozo the Clown. Bono became famous by making kiddies laughed until he turned to the Dark Side and joined the "Evil Clowns" franchise along with the Joker, Kefka Palazzo, Pennywise and some famous international politicians.

Bono the Clown must be confounded with a famous singer who likes escaping his country taxes...


	5. Shadows of the Present and Past

**Gah. Lame title is lame...**

**All right, last chapter before quite a long while.**

**As I said before, I am going to put the story on hiatus until this summer, because I have really no idea what lays ahead of me... XD Well, actually, it is not completely true. I have an idea... A very precise idea and it scares me a lot ! XD**

**(Is listening to her Johnny Clegg and Angelique Kidjo CDs).**

**As said before, I have decided that Elsweyr will have a kind of African background (I wanted it to be more "Middle eastern" first, but as it seems it is the cultural backgrounds of Redguards...).**** So, to make it sounds a bit more like it, the Khajiits used some words borrowed from Zulu and ??? . I just use them like that, so, if some of you appeared to be from South Africa or Benin, please don't lynch me. **

**And thanks a lot to Jocobai for the rope-skipping thing. ;)**

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Once again, Sigrid was lying on her back in her cabin, but this time aboard the_ Black Pea _and in a comfortable bed. This cabin was more spacious and comfortable than the one she had on the _Sophie_ as Captain Barrow's pirates seemed to love spoiling themselves...

Indeed, in addition of a very comfy and clean bed, the girl had at her disposal a big desk, a meat safe and even a bathtub which was, thanks to the genius of the venerable and now extinct Dwemers, directly supplied with fresh water. And to think Captain Barrow's cabin was even more luxurious...

Captain Jack Maubrey had insisted for Sigrid to take it first – the girl was not sure if it was by deference toward her pregnancy or if the Captain wanted to make sure to keep her away from the rest of the passengers and the crew after her impressive magical demonstration with the pirates... But Sigrid had declined his offer, arguing that the wounded Lord Thelas needed more comfort than her.

A feeling of remorse rose slowly in the girl's chest when she remembered the old man, clutched in pain on the deck with Barrow towering over him... Clairvoix was right. It was so unlike her to remain passive in such kind of situation. Months ago, she would have jumped forward immediately to play the great white knight. Months ago... Yeah, but she was not the same as "months ago" and her uneasiness amplified as she realised the real reason which motivated her to help Thelas was more the fact it offered her the opportunity to quickly get rid of Captain Barrow and his pirates rather than to save an weak old man...

Anyway, what was done was done. And the yells she could hear from the upper deck indicated that Lady and Lord Thelas were arguing, certainly a sign the old Dunmer was recovering very well. Sadly, it was not her case...

Sigrid gritted her teeth in pain as her brain started throbbing again. She tried to ignore the annoying repetitive noise made by the Dwemer engine which was powering the ship and pressed the wet and fresh linen against her forehead and eyes harder, wondering how she had managed to find the force to reach her cabin... The magical spell she had used against Barrow had literally drained her from energy and her whole body was just feeling like a big cramp ran though by shivers. In addition, the baby manifested his displeasure by kicking her constantly.

Well, she should not exaggerate... She was feeling a bit better but still not terrific as things tended to keep spinning around every time she was moving her head.

"Is this going to last long?" she asked in a weary voice. "I have been laying down that bed for more than half an hour and I don't really feel much better."

"_Yeah, it _is_ going to last long."_ Clairvoix replied rather briskly. _"You have infringed one of the basics rules of magic! You should be happy to be still alive and in one piece, so now you will be kind enough to suffer in silence!"_

Sigrid made a pout.

"Am really sorry..."

"_Ah, nonono!_" snapped the sword. _"Enough of your 'I-am-so-sorry", it is far too easy_!_How many times have I told you than altering definitely the substance of the fragile fabric of existence was foolish and extremely dangerous?!" _

The girl sighed.

"Plenty...?"

"_Too many times!" _Clairvoix shouted._ "Who do you think you are? A Goddess? Do you have any idea of how much magic you have accumulated in this precise point of the world?! All the practitioners of magical arts on Mundus must have felt you! And if I had not been here to act as a magical conductor, your body would have exploded and you would be currently painting the deck of the Sophie - a very responsible behaviour for a young pregnant girl, really! You can be happy the baby went thought this magical overdose without a scratch as well! So, stop complaining, because your poor headache is nothing in comparison of the price you should have paid!"_

Clairvoix' remonstrance echoed painfully in Sigrid's head. She moaned and pressed the linen a little bit harder on her face.

"At least," she started in a weary voice, "have you progressed a bit in your deciphering of the code of the datadice?"

"_I have.__"_the sword mumbled. It was standing on the desk by the datadice, a purple magical electric arc linking them._ "But, by Sithis, the magical codification of this thing is darn complicated_... _Wonder who coded it... Rivanone or Vicente?"_

"Probably both..."

"_Hmm, you are certainly right... And how is your pet doing?"_

Sigrid carefully sat up on her mattress and looked at a recipient on her bed table. The toad had been put into an empty anchovies' jar the girl had filled up with clear water. The animal seemed all right in a dry environment, but Sigrid had insisted for it to get into the jar nevertheless. The toad was very reluctant first and had manifested its displeasure by a concert of outraged "_rabbits!", _but it finally had accepted to get into its new home when a very annoyed Sigrid with a terrible headache had menaced it to fry its legs and eat them with garlic. Now, the little creature was sleeping peacefully, bubbles of air forming at the corner of its mouth.

"What do you think it eats?" Sigrid asked as she reached her arm toward the jar and poked it with her forefinger. The toad lazily opened an eye, looked at the girl and finally went back to sleep.

"_I already had no clue about your basic toads__' diet. So no need to say the eating habits of very strange and unknown batrachians remains for me a complete mystery… However, given the enthusiasm with which our new friend guzzled down the previous occupants of the jar, I may suggest it is carnivorous."_

At the words, Sigrid's eyes fall onto on the small pile of fishbone which was standing by the jar. The toad had emptied it in less than five minutes, chewing all the anchovies with a gourmet expression.

"It is true it seemed to like the anchovies a lot." Sigrid said in a pensive voice. "But maybe it's bad for its health. I mean, I have always considered toads and frogs to be vegetarian or insectivore, not carnivores."

"_The abundant, sharp and pointy dentition of this creature makes me doubt it likes __soy steaks and tofu…"_ Clairvoix observed.

Sigrid sighed and lay back on her bed again. Even sitting up made her feel sick. But she sat up back immediately as Clairvoix had a victorious exclamation.

"_Wooot__!"_ exclaimed the sword. "_I got it_!_I have the whole code!"_

"You... You have deciphered it?" Sigrid asked while massaging her temples as things started to spur around her again.

"_Yes! For the __evilly powerful and clever sword I am, hip hip hip hooray!"_

Sigrid breathed deeply several times. Thanks to the massage, she was feeling a bit better.

"Good. But are we supposed to do now?"

"_It is very simple."_ the sword explained. _"Each figures and numbers I am going to give you correspond to a note or a chord. The rest is up to you. I mean, I rule at magic but suck at music..."_

Sigrid grabbed the little wax tablet she always kept with her and starts noting the figures Clairvoix dictated to her, translating each of them musically in her mind. After less than a minute, she stopped.

"Of course..." she whispered, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"_What?__ Why have you stopped noting?"_

"There no need to note anymore. I know this tune. It is a part of the 'Ballad of Death's Servant'. You remember it, don't you? The piece Rivanone composed about Aymard Clairvaux – that is to say, you – turning into the Ankou, Sithis' not- too-obedient servant..."

"Of couse I know." Clairvoix exclaimed. "Which part is it?"

"The one in which you are plotting on how to betray the Dark Brotherhood and keep the soul for yourself." Sigrid replied as she brought the ocarina to her lips.

"_Oh yeah, love that part!"_ the sword giggled, beaming. _"Especially where I go all evil and explain my wicked and very clever plans to steal all the souls from the Dread Father..."_

But Sigrid was not listening to Clairvoix anymore as she had started playing. And the more she played, the redder the datadice was glowing. The fingers were moving with ease on the ocarina, but her eyes were riveted on the magical item.

Suddenly, the datadice flashed red, and, in a metallic clicking, the side with the two half-moons engraved on it sliced in four, open vertically to give way to what looked like a bubble of soap full of dark ink. There was a thin purple aura around it, and in the bubble, the ink seemed to whirl madly, taking different forms and shapes which were disappearing as quickly as they were materialising.

"_The datadice is open..."_ whispered Clairvoix.

Sigrid rolled her eyes.

"I saw."

She put a bare foot on the floor and walked unsteadily toward the desk on which the datadice was resting. She took it and came back on her bed. The little bubble was following the dice but with a little bit of delay, as if the two were linked by some kind of magical elastic.

"What's this big dark bubble for?" Sigrid asked to Clairvoix as she poked it. The bubble bounced in the air a bit before stabilising itself right above the datadice again.

"_It is the interface with the memories contained in the dice. But I am not sure it is a great idea to try that in your current state as..."_

The sword stopped and gave a big sigh when it noticed Sigrid was looking at it with a sullen pout on her face.

"_Don't tell me... You are going to sulk for ages if I prevent you to use the datadice, aren't you?"_

The pout became even gloomier.

"_Ah, right!"_ Clairvoix said, defeated. _"But don't come to me to complain your headache is not getting any better..."_ he added as Sigrid clapped happily in her hands and blew it a kiss._"All you have to do it to put your hands around the bubble without touching it – yes, like that. And now, focus on the bubble."_

Sigrid raised an interrogative eyebrow.

"Focus?"

"_Yes. Just forget about everything – me, the baby, the noise of the Dwemer machinery and even yourself. All that matters now is what is contained in the bubble."_

The girl frowned and riveted her eyes on the dark content of the strange magic bubble. Nothing happened first. She could still see the familiar environment of her cabin from the corner of her eyes and hear the "tchuuf! tchuuf!" of the ship's engine. But after a while, things started to fade away and the dark bubble overran her vision field.

Sigrid blinked. Everything around her was now dark and silent. She blinked again. Still only obscurity and silence.

"_Clair... Clairvoix?!"_ the girl asked in a panicked voice which echoed strangely around her.

"_Yeah, relax, I am here…"_

Sigrid could not see the sword, but at least she could feel its presence and had a relieved sigh.

"_Aaaaaall right... Where are we?" _she asked as she looked around.

The darkness around her had suddenly vanished, and now what she could see was a perfectly normal landscape. It was nighttimes, the sky was clear and the stars were shining.

But what worried her to the most was not the nice and rather peaceful scenery, but rather that she perceived it through senses which were not _hers_. Indeed, she was seeing things – but not trough _her eyes_. She could feel the weight and the smell of some leathery armour – but not on _her skin_. And the tongue which was licking carefully abnormally long canine teeth was definitely _not hers_...

"_We are in the mind of the person to which this memory belongs to."_ Clairvoix explained. _"Well, to be more precise, when are in his or her mind at the moment the memory happens, if you see what I mean…"_

"_I think I do...__ It is a bit like when you were living as a parasite on my mind, isn't it?"_

"_Yes, except here, we are parasitizing someone's memory and not his mind."_

Sigrid tried to take no account of the oddness of her current situation and to focus on what she could see through the eyes of the, er... parasitized person. He – Sigrid had determined the person's gender because she could sense bits usually girls did not have – was sat on a horse, hidden in the border of a small glade, observing a Khajiit and a young Imperial girl which were chatting on the doorstep of a cute little cottage. The moons were low in the sky and dawn was timidly pointing the tip of its nose now.

"_You have to explain me, Clairvoix."_ Sigrid started, sounding rather sceptic suddenly. "How can a memory be so accurate? I mean, I can perfectly see all the details of the landscapes, hear all the sounds around us, and this guy was even able to remember when a fly landed on his nose!" she exclaimed when the man chased an insect away from his face.

"_The brain is a very powerful machine, Sigrid.__ Even if you don't realise it, it registered almost everything in your subconsciousness. The Brotherhood is perfectly aware of that, and it is why we use datadice to store information rather than mere paper reports." _

"_If you say so..."_

Sigrid reported her attention on the couple. Something was worrying her about the Khajiit's voice… It was very gravelly, deep and above all very, very familiar...

"_Could this be…?"_ Sigrid asked, bewildered.

"_J'Ghasta? Sounds like it!"_ Clairvoix said in a merry voice.

"_Can't we get closer?"_

"_Only if our host__ chooses to."_

But it seemed their "host" preferred to remain unseen for the moment. Apparently, things were not going at best for J'Ghasta...

"Well, maybe we could meet again when I will be done with my mission?" the Khajiit said to his companion with a bewitching smile. But the girl's face was frozen in an annoyed expression.

"I don't think it will be necessary." the girl replied in a voice which tone was close to the absolute zero. "As it was not necessary to visit me now, especially after having spent the night at that cow of Menara's place..."

Concern flashed for a second on J'Ghasta's face. It seemed that the girl was not supposed to be aware of his different and numerous conquests in the region. But fortunately, as an experienced charmer, the Khajiit always had a Plan B for such kind of tricky situations.

"You know, at the moment I need company and comfort, and you are the only one able to give me that."

To make his declaration more plausible, he made wide and wet eyes at his fair lady. The latter raised an ironical eyebrow but continued to listen to the Khajiit nevertheless. Sigrid was ready to bet she was more curious to see what kind of excuses J'Ghasta could come up with rather than being really touched by his entreaties.

"My mother died last week." he carried on. "So I would appreciate if I could stay a few nights at your pla…"

"Your mother already died last month, J'Ghasta." the girl interrupted him, and her face was a mask of utter despise. "Strangely enough, your mother tends to die every time you need to squat in my place…"

Despite the fact the girl's voice could have cryogenised him on the spot it was still not enough to undermine the confidence of a philanderer like J'Ghasta.

"Er…Well, she… She suffered a lot, you know!"

But this time, even the Khajiit's hell of a nerve did not manage to save the day. The girl's expression turned into an angry pout and she slammed the door in his face with a resounding "You arsehole!".

J'Ghasta blinked and stared at the door, dumfounded. Then, he clenched his fists and he frowned angrily.

"Hey! Thank you so much for your charity and compassion!" he yelled at the wooden panel he was facing, shaking a fist.

The only answer he got was the metallic sound of several bolts being shot and of furniture being pushed behind the door.

This is the moment the rider chose to get out of the woods. He pushed his horse forward and slowly entered the glade. The noise made by the hoofs of the horse made J'Ghasta turned around. His facial expression became even gloomier when he recognised...

"Oh... Master Vicente. Have you been here for, er... for long?"

"_Vicente? He said Vicente?!"_ Sigrid said, thrilling. _"We are in Vicente Valtieri's head_?"

"_Hush! I am trying to listen!"_Clairvoix replied.

"Long enough." The vampire replied, beaming. "'She suffered a lot'…"he continued, imitating J'Ghasta's voice and clapping his hands as the Khajiit teenager was walking toward him, looking even more sullen and his hands in his pockets. "And another great line by my favourite plushie cat!"

For the first time since she had arrived in Vicente's memory, Sigrid was able to see the young J'Ghasta from the front. And the sight was definitely worth it...

He did not have the short hair of your basic Khajiit and his arms, shoulders and back of the neck were covered in the soft, whitish and abundant duvet typical of the young Khajiits who had not fully reached adulthood **(1)**… But strangely enough, he also sporting the mane of male _adult_Khajiit – an incredibly voluminous mane by the way, which was a striking contrast with the half-bald J'Ghasta Sigrid had always known.

As a result, the future Listener of the Dark Brotherhood looked like a giant fluffy ball and Sigrid felt the urge to run a comb in his entangled hairs.

"A great lesson on stratagems of seduction, if I may say." Vicente continued despite the killing glances the Khajiit was shooting him. "Even if it should be classified under the category 'How not to do it', of course."

"Yeah, take the mick out of me, it's free…" J'Ghasta grumbled.

"Ah, don't be so bitter, Plushie! I am sure the rest of your… _harem_ will be glad to offer you the board and lodging. And probably more if you are a nice cat…"

As he said so, Vicente offered a hand to J'Ghasta. The Khajiit reluctantly took it and hauled himself up behind the vampire.

"Could you stop calling me Plushie?" groused J'Ghasta as he tried to install himself comfortably on the saddle. "It's humiliating!"

Vicente had an evil smile and his red eyes glowed a few seconds before becoming normal again.

"It is the idea, you know! But I am not a bad man, so if you don't like Plushie, I will call you Fluff' instead."

J'Ghasta rolled his eyes but considered wiser to keep his mouth shut for now. Nevertheless, his expression made clear Vicente was going to pay dearly for that…

"Right." the vampire said as he set off his horse at jog trot. "I did not have time to get dinner last night, so I will get a little snack before we go. After that, we will meet Rivanone at the Hero's Hill - and I hope you are ready, because she is not in a good mood and the mission we have been entrusted comes from our Unholy Matron herself..."

Sigrid frowned. In the background of her mind, she could hear a noise – a noise which was not part of the memory...

And she lost her concentration. Everything around her vanished immediately as a result – the landscape, the sensations she was experiencing via Vicente's memory... and she found herself sitting on her bed, staring at noting. She blinked and lowered her eyes. In a little clicking noise and a flash of red light, the datadice closed again.

Someone was knocking on the door. Sigrid put the little dice in one of her secured pockets and walked toward the door.

"_What_?" she barked as she opened it violently. The poor sailor who was waiting behind it almost had a heart attack when he found himself facing a foaming-at-the-mouth-with-rage Sigrid.

"_What. Is. It_?" she repeated, hissing menacingly and her eyes flashing in rage.

"Sorry to bother you, Ma'am!" the man said in a high pitched voice, twitching nervously his bobble hat in his hands. "But the Captain would like to talk to you, Ma'am! He said it was urgent, Ma'am!"

"Urgent?"

The sailor gulped and nodded. Why the hell that witch was glaring at his throat like that? His eyes slowly fell upon the toad sleeping in the jar...

"Aye, Ma'am!" he squeaked.

"Right. Tell him I am coming." Sigrid replied curtly to the man. And she slammed the door in his face.

"_Troubles again?"_ Clairvoix asked as Sigrid put shoes on and the sword around her waist.

"Very likely. I doubt Maubrey would take the risk to disturb the powerful mage I am if it was not serious..." the girl replied mordantly. She then suspended her move and looked worried.

"Clairvoix?"

"_Yeah?"_

"When the sailor was here, I... I just felt like biting his throat..."

The sword laughed.

"_This is perfectly normal__, girl! You just spent a few time in the head on a hungry vampire... You are just suffering from a bit of 'memorial reminiscence."_

"By the Gods, I felt like drinking his blood, Clairvoix!" Sigrid exclaimed, sounding a bit panicked.

"_Don't __worry, it is just a bad moment to get though. It won't last. And at least it has cured you from your magical overdose!"_

Partly reassured, Sigrid quickly passed through the gang way, climbed the stairs and got on the upper deck, where she immediately identified Captain Maubrey's silhouette standing at the bow, facing the immensity of the sea. Sigrid crossed the deck in his direction, doing her best to ignore the hostile glances the sailors and some passengers where shooting her. Some were discreetly making the Sign of the Nine – hitting their forehead with the clenched fist before putting their palm on their heart – to chase the evil eyes Other did not even make the effort to hide their hostility...

"_I heard one calling you 'witch'..."_Clairvoix said in a falsely relaxed tone.

"As long as they fear me and stay away from us, it is fine." Sigrid replied in a growl. "You wanted to see me, Captain Maubrey?" she asked as she arrived near the Captain.

"Yes." The latter replied flatly. And without further explanation, he pointed at dark and threatening clouds which were gathering in the distance. It could have looked like any of your basic storms, but this one was a bit different... Indeed, it was the first time Sigrid saw lightings of many different colours and which were flashing from the sea to the clouds - and not the opposite...

"Do you have any idea of what it could be?" Maubrey asked.

"Er... Why should I know?"

The Captain had an ironic smile.

"Oh, I don't know... Maybe because it very looks like a big magical storm to me and as you seem quite brilliant in this field..."

Sigrid sighed.

"All right. What do you expect from me, Captain Maubrey?"

"That thing is too big to be avoided – actually, it is the largest storm I have seen in my career, and it is one of the fastest as well, and I doubt we can distance it... So I wondered if you could use your magical powers to get us out of this tricky situation...?"

"_Bad idea…_" Clairvoix said in Sigrid's head. _"The atmosphere is still saturated with magic, Reality would not support it. Launching a spell, even a small one, would simply result in wiping off this part of the world out of the map."_

Sigrid explained the problem to the Captain. The latter facial expression became very dark.

"Does this mean we are going to take this magical squally shower right in the face?" the Captain asked. The tone of his voice was making clear that, despite his question, he really did not want to hear the truth.

"Pretty much, yes…" Sigrid replied as diplomatically as possible. She was still looking at the lightings and worried wrinkles had appeared on her forehead.

"Ah…" Captain Maudrey commented gloomily.

They both looked at the threatening clouds in a dreary silence. In the distance, thunder resounded and the wind rose suddenly, blowing the sails violently. A series of colourful lightings tore the dark sky.

"You know, I am not a very superstitious man and please, do not take this personally..." the Captain said slowly, watching Sigrid out of the corner of his eye. "But sometimes, I _do_have the feeling women bring bad luck on a boat…"

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Far, far away from the Topal Bay, from Tamriel, and even from Mundus, a Dunmer was running – which was perfectly normal scene, except from the fact he was running in a very strange landscape. Mushrooms were the side of buildings, strange little lights were flying in the air, and the night sky was so colourful it would have made a Fauvist painter cry his eyes out.

But the Dunmer was not here to enjoy the scenery. He had a mission to accomplish for his lord, and he could not fail. His lord counted on him.

A smile appeared on his face when he saw a huge tree in the distance. Surely, it was the place he had been looking for...

But sadly for him, he would never find out, because it the moment two big ant-looking insects chose to attack him. The Dunmer did not even have the time to reach his sword that a poisoned sting ran though him. He collapsed on the ground, foaming at the mouth and after a few convulsions, he definitely stood still.

Once they were sure their prey was dead, the two insects walked toward it with, snapping their mandibles and...

There was a "poof", a cloud of dark purple smoke and two silhouettes materialised near the corpse. The two insects retreated, hissing. It was hard to see what the intruders exactly looked like because of the surroundings darkness, but they were apparently human-shaped.

Having recovered from their initial surprise, the strange insects started to threaten the newcomers with their sharp claws – and ended up their existence by flying through the air and crashing in the swamps fifty feet away.

"Nice shot, my lord, if I may say." said the smaller of the two shadows.

"Thank you." replied the other shadow, which was holding a cane. It played a bit with it and glared at the corpse for a while.

"Unworthy..." he finally growled "Stupid unworthy mortal..."

"Indeed, my lord."

The first silhouette had a strange accent, which, in another universe, would have remained those listening to it of highlands, men in kilt and haggish, while the second was speaking as if it was weighing carefully each of his word – which was actually the case.

"Where, where am I going to find a valuable Champion?" asked the figure with a strange accent, shaking his head in despair. His companion gave a polite cough.

"I am afraid we have exhausted all the resources the Isles could offer on the subject, my lord."

"Yes, I know. But there are other resources at our disposal." The tallest silhouette started to hit his chin with the top of its cane, looking thoughtful. "Tell me... Have you felt it?

"Felt what, my lord?"

"The magic... The wave of magic which shook Mundus today."

"No, my lord, I have not. I am afraid I don't have your sensitiveness on the matter."

The cane hit the ground and the first shadow laid heavily on it.

"We need to find what – or who – is at the origin of that phenomenon. Whatever it is, I am convinced it, he or she would make a better Champion than any of the pathetic morons I have tested so far."

"My lord, I would like to underline the fact you _already_ have a Champion. Isn't young Moz...?"

The shadow with the cane made an annoyed noise with his mouth.

"_Him? _But he is as useful as a hole full of clouds – er, no... no... not of clouds... Of clowns!"

A silence. Somewhere in the distance, an unknown creature screamed in the night.

"Ah, whatever!" finally exclaimed the caned shadow, renouncing to find sense to its previous comment. "Convoke him immediately! I have a small job for him. He has failed at everything I have assigned him so far – except in amusing me. I hope for him he would reveal a good hunting doggy, if he doesn't want to find me rope-skipping with his entrails..."

The second shadow bowed.

"It will be done, my lord."

"Of course it will be done! Is it my kingdom or not?!"

"Of course, of course, my lord." said the smaller silhouette in an appeasing tone. "It is just we are moving away from the plan you devis..."

The tall shadow had a horrified gasp.

"The plan?! Do you know what plans are for? Well, I am going to tell you! They are for... for..." The silhouette stopped. It seemed to have trouble to work out what plans were for until it got a sudden illumination. "For _planning_! Yes! That's it. For planning... And we don't plan, man! We are definitely _not_ planning person! No, we are _changing_ones! _Change_ will save us!"

The silhouette with the cane seemed completely ecstatic, but it did not seem to perturb its companion further.

"Will it, my Lord?"

The second silhouette was politely sceptic but the first shadow did not seem to care.

"Of course! And now, let's have some cheese pies!" Its eyes of the first figure fall on the corpse again and he poked it with his cane. "What a waste, really... Hmm, tell me... Do you think Dunmers make good bedside rugs?"

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Lying flat back on the roof of the _Bloated Float_ which was serving as a deck, J'Ghasta looked like an old bedside rug someone had taken out to dust it. The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood was enjoying the sun while keeping an eye on Ormil, the High Elf and former owner of the Bloated Float tavern, who was trying to unfold a sail.

"No, man, no! Try to open it the other way!"

Ormil shot the Khajiit a very dark glance but nevertheless obeyed. The sail indeed unfolded but also got blown in the wind. Ormil screamed as he felt on the ground and continued to be dragged by the sail.

J'Ghasta roared out laughing and went back watching the blue sky. He was feeling very optimistic. Against all odds, they had managed to get out of the harbour without a hitch. While Lucien had stayed on the Floated Bloat with Graman, J'Ghasta had dragged Ormil to the Port Authority building to make him sign the permission to weight anchor. And Mister Smeeth had been so happy to see them leave he did not ask much questions and acted as if he had not noticed the dagger the Khajiit was pointing at the Ormil's small of the back…

J'Ghasta wanted to chuck the two men out of the boat after they left the harbour, but Lucien opposed to it, pointing out the fact that despite his little experience as ship's apprentice as a kid, he won't be able to manoeuvre such a ship alone. And given J'Ghasta was not ready to give Lucien a hand...

Hence why Ormil and Graman were still alive... The Khajiit narrowed his eyes as he observed his two prisoners. Ormil was still trying to deploy his sail without being blown over board. The High Elf was not posing much problem. He was good natured person who tended to see the good side of things and was quite happy for the moment as his misfortune had enable to proof his "Bloated Float" was still able, well, to float. But his Orchish companion was another story...

For the moment, Graman was playing the game and was steering he boat, as Lucien ordered him to. Nevertheless, J'Ghasta had caught in his eyes a little gleam he did really not like... The Orc was not an imbecile. He was perfectly aware he was dealing with something much worse than mere bandits and was probably plotting something to avoid the lethal fate the two assassins were preparing for him and Ormil...

"What do you do with a drunken sailor…?" Lucien hummed to himself as he passed by J'Ghasta, moving with great ease on the point roofs of the floating tavern. The Khajiit raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure you are feeling all right, Lucien?

The later did not reply and continued to skip along like a kid. J'Ghasta rolled his eyes and sat up to watch Lucien climbing along the one of the mast and checking something in the shroud. The contrast with the Lucien he had met two days ago in the Brigadoon bar was absolutely striking. And J'Ghasta wondered if he did not prefer when his friend was depressed… It was scary, but not as much as a completely thrilled Lulu...

Something interrupted his train of thought by perching on his head.

"Could someone tell me where the hell that damn parrot comes from?!" J'Ghasta yelled as he waved hysterically his arms over his head to chase the bird away.

"I don't know, I never seen it before." said Graman, apparently delighted at J'Ghasta's annoyance. "But apparently, it likes you."

"Baaaaad kit'y! Baaaaaaaaaaad kit'y!" said the parrot as it flew off to find itself another roost.

"And in addition of being useless, it is bursting our eardrums!" J'Ghasta yelled, shaking a fist at the bird which had landed on the mast.

"Crrrrr!" replied the parrot, who was now having fun performing acrobatics in the cordages and was hanging upside down. "Polly wants a craackeeeeeer!"

"Stupid bird…" J'Ghasta muttered as Lucien landed with suppleness near him. "If it continues, either I eat it or stuff it!"

"Bah, leave it alone. After all, isn't it traditional for a boat to have a pet of some sort?"

"I prefer rats. They are not so noisy and easier to catch and cook..." The Khajiit's face brightened up. "So, how things are going, Captain Lachance?"

"Nautically speaking, not too bad..." Lucien started, untying his hair to redo his ponytail which had turned messy because of the wind. "You know, I was not entirely convinced this cockleshell could sail well but I think I should reconsider my position on the matter."

"Good!" J'Ghasta had a little smile. "And what about non nautical stuffs?"

"Well..." Lucien had a cough. "I just would like to know if you had a plan to find Trencavel..." he asked in a voice he wanted casual as he started calculating distances with his compass on a map he had just taken out of his pocket.

"Nah, we don't need a plan!" J'Ghasta exclaimed, trying to sound very sure of him. "I know the country like my pocket. And a pregnant woman travelling alone with a magic talking sword will very likely attract attention."

Lucien had a dubitative pout.

"You have not set a foot back to Elsweyr in the last thirty years..." he commented carefully. "As for Trencavel, she can be quite cunning, and no doubt that with the help of Clairvoix, she will find a way to conceal or change her appearance."

J'Ghasta' eyes narrowed.

"Hmm, talking about appearance..."

"Yes, what?" Lucien asked impatiently, still engrossed in his calculation.

"Sorry, but I always wanted to ask you that… Why do you find Trencavel attractive?"

Lucien raised his head from the map and shot his friend a blank look.

"But I don't find her attractive." he replied very neutrally.

"Hmmm, let's see… What could it be…?" J'Ghasta continued, ignoring Lucien's remark and scratching his chin. "All right. She is not a bimbo, but kind of cute... Well, she is definitely not my style – not enough flesh and boobs. But on the other hand, you have always preferred thin and athletic chicks..."

"J'Ghasta…" Lucien growled, passing a hand over his face. "I really don't feel like arguing right now..."

"Or maybe it's because she is extremely resilient?" The Khajiit's face took a sly look. "Isn't very exciting when they resist you? It gives more interest to the hunt, doesn't it" he added, giggling.

Lucien looked Aetheriusward.

"Yeah..." he growled. "It does! Especially when they kick you in the nuts..."

"Oh, no no no, wait, I think I know!" J'Ghasta exclaimed, punching in his left palm with his right fist in a theatrical "eureka!" **(2)** move. "It's certainly because you two kind of have the same familial background!"

"But are you going to shut up!? Why are you starting to get on my nerves with that?!"

"It was so obvious! Why did I not think of it before?" The Khajiit seemed too absorbed by his reasoning to notice smoke was escaping from Lucien's ears, the latter literally boiling with rage. "Let's see... You both lost your mother at a very early age – not that any of you seem to mind much, by the way...- and you never had very close relationship with your father – even if, in your case, your father was a complete son-of-a..."

"_Enough_!" Lucien spat, banging on the table with his fists.

The compass flew in the air and embedded itself in the floor, right in between the Khajiit's legs. The latter bent forward and picked up the small tool.

"Looks like I hit a soft spot..." he said softly, playing nonchalantly with the compass.

Lucien replied nothing and violently took the compass away from J'Ghasta' hands.

"Remember when you asked me today why I simply did not ask you to come with me?" the Khajiit continued as Lucien was feigning to ignore him.

The Speaker of the Cheydinhal sanctuary put his compass and map aside and had a resigned sigh.

"Yes, I do. Go ahead and tell me what you want so we could end up this mess..."

"I simply wanted to underline the fact that, again, you and your incredible talent to ignore your feelings until they explode right in your face made you easy to manipulate, Lucien." J'Ghasta said very calmly.

"You are not going to start again with that..!"

"I will Lucien, until you finally admit Rivanone, Vicente and I were right on the subject!"

"You are wrong all." spat Lucien. "An assassin must be cooled and in control. Feelings have absolutely_ nothing _to do in our job. They... handicap us!"

The Khajiit rolled his eyes.

"Handicapped, am I? Just look at me, Lucien! I am a bloody ruthless and sadistic assassin, which doesn't prevent me to be an eleven times happily married cat who loves his wives and his many descendants!"

Lucien sighed. Ah, J'Ghasta and his family... The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood was indeed the happy father of about forty children – Lucien had lost the exact count long ago…– and had turned recently into a grandfather as well. It was very weird to watch him playing and cuddling his progeny when you had seen him tearing some of his victims apart with his teeth and enjoying it a lot…

"And of course, I have my best friend…"

The Khajiit could not end his sentence as Lucien pointed the compass on him in a menacing way.

"Stop this profusion of affection! It is utterly disgusting!"

J'Ghasta giggled inwardly. Annoying Lucien could be so much fun...

"Talking about profusion of affection..." the Khajiit started with a sly look on the face. "It is going to be the birthday of some of your godschildren soon, and they would be very disappointed if their Uncle Lulu did not turn up with his arms loaded with presents…"

J'Ghasta's las remark took Lucien rather aback, and the Khajiit punctuated his sentence with a big satisfied grin, to which his Imperial friend replied with an equally big resigned sigh. Being the godsfather of his friend's rabble of kids was a full time job, and he had to set up a special diary with all the birthday dates otherwise he got completely lost – or worst, forgot, which systematically incurred J'Ghasta's reproaches.

Because J'Ghasta's children's birthdays were "The Big Thing" which should not be missed _on no account_. They were always the occasions to organise huge parties full of people Lucien did not know, that is to say the whole family of the Khajiit's different wives plus all the neighbourhood and other freeloaders...

As a result, Lucien was spending most of his time sitting in a chair with a glass of punch in one hand, a plate with a piece of cake in the other while a lot of little furry creatures were jumping on his lap, purring, meowing and asking him if he could tell them pirates and princesses stories.

The trouble was Lucien never had the knack with children. To him, they were nothing else but smaller, slinkier and more annoying versions of adults. Fortunately, J'Ghasta's wives were much more understanding than their husband with the confirmed bachelor the Speaker was, and were coming from times to times to free the poor Lucien completely overwhelmed by their affectionate but intrusive progeny.

"I will be there." Lucien muttered. "If I can find enough money to buy all your little tribe presents..."

J'Ghasta put his hands on his hips and inclined his head on his left shoulder.

"Are you implying I am not paying you enough for your duty as Speaker of the Black Hand?"

"No." growled Lucien. "I am just implying I am forced to live in an abandoned, cold and humid fort because buying your brats presents empties my purse!"

"Aaaaawww, stop it! My heart bleeds for you!" the Khajiit said laughing. "Listen, Lucien. All I want you to understand is that being a bit...human doesn't harm your abilities as assassin, far from that! Again, look at me!"

Lucien flashed a smile but suddenly looked all preoccupied again.

"Tell me one thing, J'Ghasta..." he started. "Do you think I did the right thing that night, at the top of the White Gold tower, when I killed Trencavel?"

"You think too much, Lucien, you really do." J'Ghasta replied, shaking his head and making a little _tss-tss_ disapproving noise. "Of course, you did it. Whatever you were thinking at that very moment, your assassin's reflex took over and you did the right thing! So why worrying about that?" The Khajiit sighed. "I am always amazed at your acting abilities. The cold, cruel sinister and arrogant Lucien Lachance, beset by doubt… You are a bit of a phoney, you know?

Lucien shrugged.

"I have my reputation. Besides, this is what people expect from me, so I give them what they want. It is just... I would like to understand why she hates me so much..." he concluded in a gloomy voice.

"She doesn't hate you, Lucien. She just hates the fact you are alive, while Martin is not..." J'Ghasta burst out laughing once again as he saw Lucien's desperate expression. "At least, seeing you doubting is good. It makes you a bit less arrogant and so, cleverer!" he added, nudging his friend.

"Thank you for always underlying the positive side of things!" Lucien said ironically.

The Khajiit shot him a bright smile and bowed.

"Always a pleasure, Lucien... And know we have sorted that out, stop making such a gloomy face please..."

But Lucien did not reply. He unfolded the little telescopes he was keeping in his pocket instead and started looking at something behind J'Ghasta. The latter turned around and frowned at the scenery which was offered to him.

"Hey, wait a minute. What are all those very dark clouds over there?"

Lucien bitted his lower lips as he continued to observe the phenomenon with his telescope.

"A big and very strange storm... And it was not here a few moments ago..."

"Is it coming toward us?"

"I am afraid so…" Lucien groaned as he folded up his telescope.

A pause.

"Given the face you're making, we are going to have a hard time, hey?"

The Khajiit tried to sound relaxed, but Lucien did not miss the little spark of fear which flashed in his eyes. The assassin was well aware of J'Ghasta natural repulsion toward water...

"Yes, we are… But I am sure we will be all right." Lucien lied in order to put his friend's mind at rest. "We always get out of tricky situation, don't we?"

"Polly wants a crackeeeeeeer!" said the parrot which had just landed on Lucien's shoulder.

"Ah, _shut up_!"

7777777777777777777

In the sky of Elsweyr, in a small village near the town of Valley Guard, a storm was approaching too, its dark clouds hiding the stars and the two moons. A perfect night for conjurers to meet, and those who had gathered in one of the little hut of the village perfectly knew it. Sadly, what they ignored was that this storm was also the bearer of their demise...

The assembly was sitting in the small hut, directly on the ground and on the mats which had been provided to them. The crowd was rather disparate and offered many samples of the different breeds of Khajiits living in Tamriel.

There were the heavily-built Cathay-raths, the strongest warriors among the cat people of Elsweyr, their smaller cousins, the Cathays, the thin and extremely agile Dagis who were observing the room with their large eyes, but also the cat-sized Alfiqs, the almost fully human Ohmes and the cunning Suthays.

All the members was having a heated debate, but the yells, hissing, roaring and mix of Khajiit dialects and of Cyrodiilian was making very hard to understand what the problem was.

"Most the tribes have already rallied him, ubasiDro'Ba!" exclaimed Urjora the Dagi, spokesman of the tribes of the eastern badlands.

"That's exactly why we must stand against him or else it will be too late!" Dro'Ba replied curtly.

"We should rally Sha'ka! Gods are on his side!"

Some Khajiits roared to show their approval. Other hissed and spat on the ground to demonstrate their disgust and despise.

"Sha'ka is just a very ambitious Khajiit!" Dro'Ba exclaimed, hitting the ground with his powerful fist. "Nothing apart from power greed and treason are on his side!"

At the words, all the chiefs started to speak at the same time, cursing, roaring and shaking their fists at one another according to their opinion on the matter. To avoid being squashed by their bigger and annoyed cousins, the Alfiqs jumped on the little edge which marked the limits between the walls and the roof of the hut and continued to enjoy the show from there.

"_Silence!"_

All shut up at once. The voice which had just spoken was the one of authority and no one, even the powerful Dro'Ba, leader of the tribes of the south, would have ever dared to stand against ubasi Qarano, the elder of the tribal chiefs who had gathered tonight.

"Sha'ka's growing power is indeed extremely worrying." Qarano said when the room became quiet again. "However, given we are deprived of our spiritual leader, it may be good for someone to occupy the empty space left by the Mane."

"I agree with you on this point, o Qarano." replied Dro'Ba in a diplomatic tone which did not sound like him. "But this place should not be occupied by this liar of Sha'ka and his Ashborn henchman!"

"It is not because Raksada is a Dunmer he is necessarily evil..." Urjora commented wisely.

"A Dunmer? Him?" Dro'Ba spat on the ground. "If it was only that... This scumbag of Raksada is a _bokor_ and nothing else!"

"By the First Cat, ubasi Dro'Ba, don't pronounce that word!" shrieked one of the Khajiit, grabbing a bit of soil and throwing it over his right shoulder to keep at bay misfortune. "Do you want to attract the evil eye on us!?"

At the sound of the word "bokor", many in the room had frozen in horror. Almost all of them were wearing a Hand of Fadomai amulet they grabbed convulsively to protect themselves.

"This is a terrible accusation you are making, ubasi Dro'Ba." Qarano said in a slow voice. "Do you have any proof of what you are suggesting?"

The word, the chops of the big Cathay-rath curled up in an ironic smile.

"You want proof, ubasi Qarano? Aren't the massacres of the villages of Bagri and by his Lion Men enough? Or do you want more proof this bastard is using the Old Arts – with Sha'ka's approval?"

"Sha'ka would not dare to use such kind of magic." growled Qarano, shaking his head. "Thousands of moons passed since anyone dared to use it. This would be against all rules and..."

"And you think it would enough prevent Sha'ka to use it, o Qarano, if he thinks it can guarantee him the victory?" said Dro'Ba bitterly_ "_But can't you see all that matters to him is to ensure is domination over our lands?He has proclaimed himself being the natural successor of the Mane, and now, he wants to be called 'incosi'!_ 'Incosi'_!" repeated the Cathay-rath ubasi, sounding profoundly sick. "'King of kings'! Nothing less!"

Silence fall on the assembly until someone gave a little cough.

"Well," started a small Tojay Khajiit, "after all, most of the tribes have recognised him as incosi. So maybe we should copy them? They would not have rally Sha'ka if he was so bad..."

"We could join him for a temporary period." Urjora ventured. He then turned toward the chief of tribes of the south. "Let's be patient, Dro'Ba. Soon, a new Mane should rise and bring peace back to our troubled lands..."

"But are you stupid of what? There won't be any more Manes!" roared Dro'Ba, sweeping furiously the food and drinks which had been disposed in front of him on the ground. "Not now there is no more Moon Staff to design the new one."

A collective sigh rose from the assembly.

"I can't believe the Virgins of Dagomey betrayed the Mane." said one Khajiit, shaking his head. "They had been devoted to him body and soul..."

"We have no proof of that said betrayal - apart from Sha'ka's and his allies' testimony, of course." sniggered Dro'Ba.

Urjora's eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"I am a bit tired of your insinuation, ubasi Dro'Ba. I am going to think you are only jealous of Sha'ka and envy his..."

But the Dagi did not end up his sentence and mewed in fear as Dro'Ba grabbed him by the throat.

"And I, Urjora, wonder why you are defending him so hard..." the Cathay-rath snarled, baring his teeth at the Dagi.

But the quarrel did not have time to grow acrimonious as the door of the hut burst open. Several Khajiit roared in protest.

"Who dared? Such intrusion cannot be tolerated!" Qarano exclaimed. But he fell silent when he realised something dark and liquid was dripping along the soldier's legs.

The guard was one of Dro'Ba's Cathay-raths, and he was badly wounded. He was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated by pain and fear, and he was holding tight his arms around his belly as if he was afraid of something to get out of it. Behind him, through the opened door, could be hear the rumour of a battle going on.

"Ubasi Sha'ka is there!" he said in rattle of pain. "His troops... have managed to pass... the three defensive ditches. They have massacred the... defenders and..."

At that point, the soldier's eyes rolled upward and he felt on the floor with a humid noise as his entrails spilled on the ground. Almost simultaneously, a powerful ice spell hit one of the walls of the hut, making it explode and creating a heavy cloud of dark smoke.

"The torches! Light on the torches again!" Dro'Ba yelled, blinded by the dust.

"The torches!" repeated people around him.

Coughing and spitting out dust, the Khajiits managed to light them back and thus dissipating the darkness a bit.

"Jo'Rat!" Dro'Ba yelled, calling his first lieutenant. "Regroup the men! We need to see if we can organise a counter attack or..."

"It won't be necessary, Dro'Ba." said a voice drawling.

All the Khajiit's turned toward the direction from which the voice was coming. A silhouette was standing in the big hole made by the hex which hit the hut. It was hooded and cloaked and the only visible part of it was his blue-skinned and pointed chin which gave away his Dunmer origins. In the cold air of the night, the sound of the war drums rose.

"Good evening, gentlemen." said the newcomer. Two elegant and perfectly manicured hands decorated with many rings got out of his sleeves and pushed his hood back. A murmur of fear and anger ran across the assembly of Khajiits when they recognised...

"Raksada!" hissed Dro'Ba, pointing at him. "You dirty Ashborn! May your mother be raped by the filthiest Daedras!"

For a Khajiit, the insult was significant, but it did not provoke the wrath of the newcomer and his thin lips stretched in small nasty smile.

"Let's leave my poor dear mother out of that... And it is _ubasi _Raksada to _you_, Dro'Ba."

The Khajiits gathered in the room hissed and roared together at once. But no one dare to make a move. Even if the tribal chiefs in the room were numerically superior, Raksada was a powerful mage which exact extent remained unknown, and no one in the room felt like testing it.

"How _dare_ you to call yourself a tribe chief, scumbag!" spat a Tojay. Other Khajiits imitated him and started to hurl abuses at the Dunmer.

"Enough!"

Once again, the old ubasi Qarano raised a hand to bring peace back.

"Donning yourself with Khajiit titles and using a Khajiit name doesn't make you one of us, Raksada." the old Khajiit observed patiently. "And your provocations won't help you to gain our favours."

"Donning myself?" Raksada asked, sounding falsely surprised. "But this honour has been granted to me by_Incosi_ Sha'ka himself. And why should I care about the favours coming from traitors?"

"Traitors? Us?" Dro'Ba screamed, sounding badly insulted.

"Yes. Trai-tors." Raksada repeated. "That's the name given to people who plot against their lord. But fortunately, a faithful Khajiit informed us of your treacherous plans..."

Dro'Ba's jaw dropped out of surprise, and then his face turned into a pure mask of hatred and anger.

"URJORA!" he roared to strongly his voice covered the noises of the battle. But he could not see the Dagi anywhere.

"I am afraid he left..." Raksada said in a malicious tone. "And now, my dear friends, I propose that you all drop your weapons and follow me to the kraal of Torval where you will be judged – fairly of course – and then sentenced to death... So, what do you think?"

The only answer he got was Dro'Ba's scream of rage. The latter was running on Raksada, his terrible sabre raised about his head to kill the Dunmer.

Raksada stayed where he was, but made a little move with his left hand and murmured something. Dro'Ba stopped dead, his eyes widening when he realised he was slowly inflating... The Cathay-rath whined in pain as the veins on his forehead swelled and his companions watched in horror his skin becoming distended. The whines turned into screams when the skin started to tear apart and suddenly, Dro'Ba, the chief of the tribes of the south and one of the grates warrior of Elsweyr, went "pof!". Or rather, "slaptch!"...

A terrible silence fell on the persons present. The rest of the chiefs were looking, bemused, at what was left of the Cathay-rath's corpse – part of it was actually covering them.

Raksada wiped the blood on his face with the back of his hand and looked critically at it for a while before he started to lick it with an obscene pleasure. Then, he gave the horrified assembly a friendly smile.

"Well, I take this as a 'no'."

Outside, the sound of the war drums intensified. A strong smell of mud rose in the air, which was quite surprising in this very dried region of Elsweyr.

"Time to feed, my little pets!" Raksada exclaimed merrily. The all chiefs screamed in horror as something dark and which hunger was never satisfied entered the ruins of the hut. Something which smelt strongly of swamps...

While his companions were methodically massacred around him, Qarano, the old Khajiit, stayed sat on the ground, his eyes of the colour of amber riveted on the Dunmer.

"So, Dro'Ba was right." he said in his very calm tone. "You_ are_ a bokor."

"I am afraid so, old cat." Raksada replied, sounding very satisfied of himself. "And there is nothing you can do against that."

The Dunmer turned his back to Qarano and left the hut while the shadows were closing in around Qarano.

**(1** The Khajiit duvet can be considered as the equivalent of the human acne – in short, teenagers found it unsightly and used it as an excuse to justify their malaise as well as their general annoying behaviour. Nevertheless, the comparison stops here as it is probably better to look fluffy and cute rather than having your covered-in-red-pimples face looking like a fruit-baked-in-batter cake…

**(2)** The very famous expression used by the non less famous savant and mage Kadryar from the Summerset Islands, who once got out of his bath completely naked as he suddenly found the solution of a problem. Unfortunately, in the precipitation, he slipped on one of the many bars of soap which were lying on the ground. The bar of soap then landed on his head, and the shock made him forget the revolutionary theorem he just formulated in his genial brain and which could have saved the life of many. But at least he learnt a valuable lesson about tidying his place.


	6. Shipwrecks and Squids

**Chapter 5 – ****Shipwrecks and Squids**

**Another looooong ****chapter!**

**Not much to say here, apart from I love squids. :D**

7777777777777777777

Far away from the Topal Bay and its meteorological eccentricities, a pedestrian was walking peacefully along the road from the Imperial City to Cheydinhall. He could have been just a traveller among others if only he did not have the strange habit of systematically cutting any of the tussocks growing in between the cobblestones which, in his opinion, were making the road looking extremely messy…

But he was not in a hurry. Certainly, he had to attend a meeting today, but he was not expected before nighttimes and when he finally arrived in view of Cheydinhall gates, it was in the middle of the morning. The guards on sentry did not ask him anything when he crossed the gates but saluted him warmly, showing they knew him already. The man gave them their salute back and continued on his way.

Once inside the walls of the city, the strange traveller quickened his steps toward the new tavern – or rather, the "restaurant" as Listener J'Ghasta called it – named the "Happy Pheasant Rump" which had just opened in the city a few weeks ago in place of the old abandoned house. 

Because of the early hour, the place should be almost empty, apart maybe from the staff preparing the tables for the day. This was perfectly arranging matters for our man who was not especially looking forward attracting attention…. Well, he still could have could have used the secret entrance in the well to get into the place, but this access was rather dirty and taking the risk to mess up his outfit was something he definitely did not want to attempt.

Once facing the door of the "Happy Pheasant Rump", he knocked three times on it and waited for an answer. As he did not get any, he stepped in without further fuss. 

The cosy interior was very quiet and seemed empty, until the well-known face of Fafnir, the handy man of the Dark Brotherhood and the current manager of the restaurant, materialised from behind the check-in desk.

"Ah, it's you, Arius!" The old assassin sniffed and blew its nose in a handkerchief he produced out of his sleeve. Despite the fact he was a Nord, Fafnir constantly suffered from a cold, whatever the weather was. This had earned him the nickname of "Fafnir Runny Nose", which you avoided to use in his direct presence, except if you were specifically looking for having your tongue nailed to the closest wall… 

"You're finally back!" continued the old man cheerfully. "So, how was your trip?"

Arius did not reply immediately but first gave the old man the Dark Brotherhood salute which consisted in showing the four fingers of your right hand, then only the thumb, before wrapping your fist in your left hand. The meaning was easy to get for a Dark Brotherhood member: four Speakers, one Listener, all of them submitted to the terrible will of the Dread Father and his mouthpiece, the Night Mother. 

Against all odds, this earned Arius a rising of disapproving eyebrows from the Nord.

"You don't have to be so formal with me, man. I am not the Listener or our Unholy Matron." grumbled Fafnir. "So young, yet always so strict… Why can't you relax a bit?"

The words of the old assassin took aback Arius more than vexed him.

"Well, aren't those…_formalities_ part of our identity as members of the Dark Brotherhood?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Then, a thin smiled flashed on his face. "And I am not that young…"

Fafnir shrugged.

"All I know is that people who get carried away with all those stuffs tend to die early because of the unnecessarily stress it causes to them, Arius… And now, you'd better hurry. Even if Ocheeva was not expecting you before tonight, I am sure she would be happy to see you know…"

"Oh. Something bad happened?"

The old assassin' face took a shifty look.

"All I know is that she received a letter from high above, if you see what I mean…"

"I think I do, Fafnir. Thank you for the information."

Arius was about to salute Fafnir again before taking his leave of him, but he changed his mind at the last second and simply gave him a nod. The Nord had a bright smile and winked at him before disappearing behind the check-in desk again.

Arius left the dining room and walked toward the cellar, where he started up a candlestick which looked perfectly normal except for the fact this candlestick opened a secret passage in one of the wall. 

A puff of cold humid air with a strong musty smell tickled the assassin's nostrils as he started to get down the flight of stairs which sunk abruptly into the humid dim-light of the bowels of the building. 

After having groping around in the dark for a while, he finally reached a big door surrounded by a red aura which was gleaming peacefully in the darkness. A series of motives where engraved on it, representing a side-on feminine figure before which smaller silhouettes bowed down. A strange noise, like a heart beating started to rise slowly, echoing against the walls of rough stones. 

Belisarius Arius had never been sure if the beating was coming from the heart of the door – in the hypothesis it had one, of course – or from his own… And maybe it was better not to find out.

"_Wha__aaat is… the color… of niiiiight?"_ suddenly asked a creepy and hissing voice as the assassin was drawing closer. The heart beat increased a bit as the question was pronounced.

A shiver of pleasure ran along the Imperial's spin when he remembered the first time he had to answer this. It was many years ago and in another place, but the feeling of joy was still intact and it was with a manifest pleasure he replied. 

"Sanguine, my brother."

"_Welc__ooome hooome."_ the door replied very solemnly. Then, it gave a cough and its voice changed completely, dropping its very formal tone for a cheerful but slightly lisping one (**1**). _"It's so nice to zee you back, Ariuz! And pleaze, don't forget to wipe your feet on ze doormat. I know you are a very, er… tidy perzon, but Gogron just washed ze floor and I don't think he would be happy to ztart everything again…"_

Belisarius Arius nodded in agreement and crossed the door, sighing in relief. At least, he was home.The more the years passed and the more Arius had difficulties to evolve in the "normal" world. He felt so vulnerable and clumsy out there... Only the Sanctuaries of the Dark Brotherhood and the company of his fellow assassins were providing him the feeling of peace and security he was looking for.

Talking about fellow assassins, none of them seemed to be in the hall at the moment, but the repeated sounds of blades hitting wood indicated him at least some were in the training room. Thus, the only presence in the hall was the one of Gak the Skeleton, the Sanctuary's Dark Guardian, who was hauling his old carcass around the place twenty four hours a day in the typical way of undead creatures, that is to say dragging his feet and making strange creaking and gurgling noises. 

"Greetings, Gak!" Arius politely saluted the skeleton as it passed by him. "Is that bad arthritis of yours getting any better?"

"Gak (**2**)." replied the Dark Guardian, saluting back.

"Glad to hear it! Now tell me… Do you know if Ocheeva is in her room?"

"Gak."

"Thank you."

Arius left the hall toward the corridor which leaded to the Mistress of the Sanctuary's private quarters. The assassin's keen ear confirmed that she was indeed in her room but with a second whispering voice Arius identified as M'raaj-Dar. Given their tone, they were not very happy…

"… and you don't know everything." Ocheeva was saying to the Khajiit. "She also wants to…"

Arius cleared his throat and gave two sort knocks on the door. The conversation stopped at once. 

"It's Arius, I just came back from the Imperial City." the assassin announced. "May I come in, o Ocheeva?"

Footsteps got closer to the door which then opened an inch and the familiar reptilian face of the Mistress of the Sanctuary materialised in the recess. She did not seem particularly please to see Arius. The latter sighed. Since he had joined the base of the Brotherhood in Cheydinhall, his relationship with Ocheeva had been courteous but not exactly warm, and Arius wondered if it was personal or due to mere jealousy provoked by the fact that, as Lucien's Silencer – a status Ocheeva was not aware of – the Speaker was requiring his presence more than hers…

"Ah, it is nice to see you, Brother." the Argonian said in a tone which contradicted her words. "Come in and make your report, please."

Arius got in, quickly saluted M'raaj-Dar and did what he was told, narrating in the details what happened since he had left the Sanctuary with Speaker Lachance until he had took his leave from them on the quays of the Imperial City.

"So, this time, they are really gone…" Ocheeva sighed, scratching her chin. "Until the last moment, I hoped Lucien reappraised his plans and stayed here, but…" 

"He was really determined to go, Ocheeva." Arius said flatly. "He had to do it. Both as an assassin and as a man. He could not leave his Listener - and friend…- going on this dangerous trip alone, and he still has a score to settle with Trencavel..."

The Argonian rolled her eyes and raised her arms toward the ceiling in an annoyed move.

"And to think Lucien had always made a fuss about being wary of mixing professional and personal issues – what a Mister 'Do what I say but not what I do'!" she exclaimed, before sighing heavily. "I just hope this won't make him doing stupid things…" she grunted, sounding actually more worried than angry.

Arius smiled inwardly. Whatever you may think of Ocheeva, you only could admire and respect her total love and complete devotion to the man who had trained her and her brother Teinaava as assassins, but also had raised them as his own children...

"Well, are my services required anymore, o Ocheeva?" Arius asked when the Argonian seemed to have calmed down a bit. 

The latter exchanged a quick glance with M'raaj-Dar to which the Khajiit replied with a nod. Ocheeva walked toward her desk and retrieved the piece of paper which was laying flat on it.

"Yes, Brother Arius. I would like you to read this and give me your opinion on the matter…"

Arius took the piece of parchment Ocheeva was handing him and started to read it. It was wearing the seal of the Black Hand, but it is the signature at the end of the letter which caught his full attention…

"These orders are from the Acting-Listener Arquen, I can see." Arius has a thin smile as he quickly scanned the text of the missive again. "Interesting..."

"As you may have read, our favourite High Elf wants us to call her 'Listener'." Ocheeva commented in a gloomy voice. "And apparently, she has decided to revamp the whole organisation of the Brotherhood and the Black Hand."

"It seems so… Quite audacious of her, if I may say." said Arius in a whisper. "Is she that convinced Lucien and J'Ghasta will never come back and thus she will stay at the head of the Black Hand?"

"Of course she is, and it bloody kills me!" spat M'raaj-Dar. "Her behaviour during the traitor crisis a few months ago proved her complete inability to think freely and to stand back to assess an event! And she wants to be our leader? No way!" 

Arius narrowed his eyes as he folded the letter again and handed it back to Ocheeva.

"You're right, M'raaj-Dar." he replied in a soft voice. "But as Speaker Lachance said, we must do our best not to get involved into the political intrigues of the Black Hand... So let's keep a low profile and call Arquen whatever she wants to be called. 'Listener', 'Queen of the Universe'… - it doesn't' cost anything, after all." 

"What about our pride?" snarled Ocheeva, shooting him a scornful look which made Arius' smooth face frowned a little.

"_By Sithis, she really hates me…"_ he thought as his eyes crossed Ocheeva's. But Arius was not the kind of man to be destabilised that easily and he quickly recover his serene composure.

"With all due respect, o Ocheeva, I don't think our pride would be very useful when we will be all wallowing in what will be left of our entrails…" he replied in an appeasing voice. "Because, as thick as a mudcrab Arquen may be, she is not without nuisance abilities and something tells me she will crush everything which stands in her way. Like the Cheydinhall Sanctuary and its members, for example…"

The Argonian observed Arius in silence for a while, with an indescribable expression on her face. The Imperial glared back as courteously as he could. He would have given anything to have a general idea of Ocheeva's thoughts at the moment.

"You know," she started after a while, "I am more worried about Lucien and J'Ghasta than about us. If Arquen is determined to become Listener, she may do her best to make sure they will never come back from Elsweyr…"

M'raaj-Dar made a little stunned noise with his throat.

"You mean… She would put a contract on their heads? And risking triggering Sithis' Wrath?"

"There is a precedent." Ocheeva replied, sarcastic.

"Yes, but the situation was a bit different." Arius intervened. "At that time, the Black Hand was convinced Lucien was the traitor and thus was acting within the frame defined by the Tenets…"

"And Arquen is convinced J'Ghasta and Lucien are betraying the foundations of our organisation in their way of managing it." the Mistress of the Sanctuary snapped back. "All you need to do to realise that is to read her bloody letter!"

M'raaj-Dar shook his head as if he was trying to get rid of some nasty thoughts.

"I am sure J'Ghasta and Lucien had considered this possibility." he murmured, clutching his hands nervously. "And they must have taken the necessary dispositions." But he did not sound really convinced.

"The trouble is that they are on their own, without any logistic support from the Brotherhood and in a country which political situation is far from being stable…" Arius commented more or less to himself. "And if in addition they are being chased by members of the Brotherhood…"

"'Assassins are resourceful people.'" said Ocheeva sententiously, quoting one of Lucien's favourite maxims.

But the Argonian's fellow assassins did not find the time to comment furthermore on the matter as the door opened violently and Gogron the Orc got through the door running, almost collapsing on the floor when he stumbled on the carpet. He looked quite panicked, which was very unlike him.

"Ocheeva!" he boomed. "Arqu… The Acting-Listener is here and demands to see you immediately." he added in a lower voice, shooting worried glances behind his shoulder.

At the words, Ocheeva's face froze and the tension became palpable. The Mistress of the Sanctuary exchanged a meaningful glance with her two companions before following close behind Gogron who was leaving the room.

When they arrived in the hall, Arquen the High Elf was awaiting them already. The Listener had removed her hood, offering to everyone present in the room an unobstructed view of her pigsty facial features. She was flanked by two assassins Ocheeva had never seen before. 

The first one was quite tall and strongly built, with thick facial features in which were gleaming two crazed eyes. On the contrary, the second was short, slim, one-eyed and for some reason reminded Ocheeva of an anchovy. Both were wearing their shrouded amour and were hooded as well, but the Argonian could see how they were carefully scanning the surrounding as if they were expecting an attack…

Ocheeva found them immediately unpleasant and nicknamed them Nutty and Anchovy-Face.

Standing a few feet away from this infernal trio were Antoinetta Marie and Teinaava, soon joined by Gorgon. The three assassins looked as if they felt very small, which was probably the case.

"May the Dread Father always look upon you, o Honourable Listener." Ocheeva said, saluting Arquen in the Dark Brotherhood style. "I do apologise in advance for the mess you may find here, o Listener, but we had not been warned of your arrival."

The High Elf's face splitted with a smile which wanted to be friendly, but her eyes were as cold as ice.

"It is all right, Ocheeva." Arquen replied in such a sweet voice she would have made a pack of candies jealous. "This place has always been a mess anyway, so I am not more shocked than usual…"

The dark green complexion of Ocheeva turned very pale as she blanched under the insult, and M'raaj-Dar was frowning so much his facial features were barely visible. Of the three assassins facing Arquen directly, only Arius remained imperturbable, as usual. But under his mask of indifference, he was observing the High Elf carefully. 

The Imperial was convinced Arquen was indeed dangerous, not only for the Cheydinhall Sanctuary, but also for the rest of the Dark Brotherhood. She was ambitious, which was not a bad thing in itself, but was starting to get worrying when it was becoming so important it turned into some kind of religious faith. Because – now Arius was convinced of it – Arquen, like Ungolim and Uvani before her, was sure she was entrusted with "A Mission". What kind exactly, no one was really sure, but what was certain was that the Dark Brotherhood needed in these troubled times a leader with a clear plan, and certainly not some kind of crazed crusader motivated by a blind faith...

This was actually the main difference between people like J'Ghasta and Arquen. Vision versus Mission. The first one had a clear idea of the "final product" he wanted to obtain but remained flexible on the means to achieve it, whereas the second was ready to crush everything on her way, even if she had no clue on where she was going exactly.

Arius dropped his philosophical considerations for a while and reported his attention back on the Listener's unpleasant face. Arquen was still smiling and she was taking an obvious pleasure in the members of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary's defeat, as well as her two side-kicks who were sniggering openly. 

"I believe things are going to the dogs since a few months ago, here as well as in the rest of the Brotherhood." Arquen carried on. "Thankfully, I am now able to mend the situation as certain troublesome elements have… _left_. That's why we are all going to work in good terms in order to set up the Dark Brotherhood to its former glory… "

While the Listener continued to soliloquize on what she had in mind for the future of the Brotherhood, M'raaj-Dar looked at Arius with a gleam in his eyes which said "Bingo!". Both knew too well who the "troublesome elements" were and Arquen's declaration was just confirming their worst fear…

Arius gritted his teeth. If the Listener had decided to definitely get rid of her two rivals and taken over the Dark Brotherhood, it was his duty to find a way to thwart her plans. He had sworn his Speaker he would do anything in his power to preserve things the way they were… But now the question was: how…?

As if Arquen had felt his thoughts, her dark eyes riveted on Arius and the latter tensed up under her full of malice glance. Could have she worked out already that they were already plotting against her? No, no, it could not be possible… Of course, she knew the members of the Cheydinhall Sanctuary were deeply attached to their Speaker and thus were likely to remain faithful to him, so she was just giving them a warning… wasn't she?

"… Anyway, I am sure we will go on well together." Arquen said in a satisfied voice, ignoring the sceptic look on the assassins' face. "After all, we all want the best of our dear Brotherhood, don't we? And for those who disagree, well… they will suffer a thousand deaths in the Dread Father's cold embrace." she concluded with a cruel smile.

7777777777777777777

The members of the Cheydinhall sanctuary were not the only ones in deep trouble, and aboard the_Black Pea_, Sigrid Trencavel, aka Berthe Doe, was having one of those moments where you wished you were not born. 

For security reasons, Captain Maubrey had made all passengers gathering in the captain's cabin on the upper deck, whereas he and the rest of the crew were outside, trying to steer the boat in the terrible magical storm Sigrid had triggered inadvertently. 

So the travellers were all stacked up there, listening at the terrifying raging of the forces of Nature outside while the room was illuminated by the flashes of lightening.

"It's the end of the world…!" whined Endras the Bosmer bard, clutching his harp nervously. "We are all going to die, and the fishes will feast on our dead bodies swollen with water while seagulls will peck at our glassy eyes and…"

"Take a grip on yourself, man." Lord Thelas interrupted him curtly. "Fear doesn't make danger go away."

The old Dunmer should have been in agony with his broken ribs, but he was doing his best not to express his pain and trying to keep a neutral face – except for his left eye which was twitching from times to times. His wife, Lady Thelas, was sitting by him, an arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders.

"You may be right, Lord Thelas. But our current situation is far from being bright." said one of the passengers bitterly. "And I don't know about you people, but I am starting to wonder if I had not preferred to fell into the hands of the pirates…"

His words provoked a murmur of approval and all heads turned toward Sigrid who was sitting on the ground and against one of the wall of the cabin, a few feet away from the group. 

Since they had learnt she was at the origin of the storm in which they were caught, the level of animosity toward her had increased dramatically, and apart from the Thelas who showed her their unfailing support, the other travellers were not hiding their will to give her a piece of their mind. 

Realising she had become the centre of attention, Sigrid shot a quick look at her companions but did not bother to react to the comment, even if the deep line which was running right across her forehead showed she had perfectly heard it.

"And she sits there, without doing anything apart whispering to herself like the madwoman she is…" continued the passenger, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. "She made us penniless and doesn't do anything to get us out of this mess… Aaaargh!"

The man did not find the time to finish his vicious attack because Lady Thelas had stood up and walloped him violently over the head.

"You have no honour, young man! Better being dead than turned into a slave!" Lady Thelas shouted, her imposing breast shaking out of rage and apparently forgetting her short moment of enthusiasm about being turned into a sex slave before the attack of the pirates... 

But no one dared to underline this fact to her, and all the travellers became silent again, probably fearing to be knocked off by the annoyed and obese Dunmer Lady. 

The latter made a little despising noise with her mouth before turning toward Sigrid and winking at her. The girl gave her a feeble smile before huddled up once more in her corner.

"Clairvoix, I am going to die…" she whispered, wrapping her arms around her belly before retching again. "I feel so bad!"

"_No, you are no__ going to die… Well, you are already a bit green in the face, but at worst you are going to be as sick as a dog, that's all." _

"Isn't there anything you can do to relieve this feeling of nausea, like a spell or…?" she asked with a bit of hope in her voice. 

"_No more magic, Sigrid. I told you."_ the sword replied flatly.

"But it is awful." she complained, without managing to move Clairvoix much. "And what if 

"_Are you deaf or what? No. More. Magic.__ Don't you think you have done enough already?"_

"But Clairvoix… Please…" she begged. "It is just a tiny spell… And the situation can't get worst anyway…!"

Sigrid suddenly stopped, became greener and her cheeks started to blew up as if she was ready to vomit right on Clairvoix…

"_Argh! All right, all right!"_ the sword's voice squeaked in her head. _"Use you damn dice if you feel like it, but if we get disintegrated or lynched by a bunch of pissed of passengers, don't come to me to complain!"_

But Sigrid was already ruffling though the pocket in which she had put the dice. She retrieved it and brought it near her mouth while turning toward the wall to hide what she was doing to the other passengers.

"Will it work if I sing instead of playing the ocarina?" she murmured.

Clairvoix managed to do one of his incredible mental shrug of shoulders. 

"_I think so. It reacts to music, whatever it is played or sang."_

The girl started to sing quietly, doing her best no to attract attention. Soon, the dice started to gleam and opened again, freeing the little bubble containing the memories. Sigrid then shot a worried look behind her shoulder, making sure no one has seen her. But the passengers were too busy chewing over their dark thoughts to care about her anymore.

Feeling a bit relieved, she took the dark bubble in her hands and stated focusing on it, like she did the first time. And soon, she felt absorbed once more in the memories contained in the data dice.

Once again, the landscape had changed around her. What she could currently see thought her host's eyes was a very pleasant landscape made out of great plains while in the background a mountain range Sigrid identified as the Valrus Mountains was slowly emerging in the distance.

Vicente was still riding his horse, J'Ghasta sitting behind him as indicated by his arms wrapped around the vampire's waist and the strong musky smell. There was another sound of hoofs coming from behind. Apparently, Vicente and his young companion where not travelling alone…

"_Will we still see things from Vicente's point of view?"_ Sigrid asked Clairvoix.

"_Not necessarily__. Usually, when assassins make their reports via datadice, they like to use and compare the memories of the different members of their team. I would not be surprised if we ended up in Fluff's – I mean J'Ghasta's mind next time we use the dice…"_

"Are we there yet?" asked J'Ghasta in a whining voice right in Vicente's left ear.

"_Talk of the Daedra and he is sure to appear…"_ giggled Sigrid.

"No, J'Ghasta." said a feminine voice coming from behind the Khajiit. "And if you ask that question one more time, I swear I will make you clean the whole sanctuary with your tongue." 

The mysterious rider caught up with Vicente's mount, and the latter turned his head to face her, but Sigrid had already recognised the voice and her heart stopped beating when she found herself facing Rivanone Trencavel.

Rivanone Trencavel... One of the greatest bards in the history of Tamriel who had, among other things, composed the Empire's most beautiful chansons de geste, given the definite letters patent of nobility to the watercolour painting techniques, written a series of reference books on the art of alchemy and was secondarily Sigrid's grandmother. Quite a lot of things to achieve for such a little piece of a woman, and actually, nothing predestined her to such a destiny…

She was born as Rivanone Bayeux, a very noble Breton lineage which had lost all its ancestral and considerable wealth in just a generation thanks to Rivanone's father and uncle, who both really sucked a card games and who had an innate talent for investing colossal amounts of money in short-lived projects such as a Mudcrab theme park or a farm specialised in breeding domesticated Land Dreughs.

But the young Rivanone was a rather strong-willed person who had her heart set on restoring the power of her family, and after the mysterious death of her uncle and father in an incredible accident implying a dozen oysters, a gnu and three needles, she launched herself in a series of arranged marriages with the heirs of the richest and most powerful Breton families of High Rock. And in spite of her lack of dowry, an unbelievable charisma, a sweet little face as well as a nice size of bra opened wide to her the doors – and the beds – of the best of the Breton nobility.

So she soon found her Lord Right, but given Breton lords were more or less constantly at war with one another, her fresh new husband died on the battlefield, his neck broken as he felt from his horse – apparently a problem with the strap of his saddle. After the minimal period of mourning, she married another lucky man, who soon kicked the bucket as well in the same circumstances as his predecessor. But this did not prevent Rivanone to get married again, then be widowed, then get married again, then widowed, in an endless farandole…

Certainly, all her husbands did not die battling, some of them also passed away home in stupid domestic accidents, like falling from a ladder… Of course, this did not remain unnoticed, and as no one had ever been able to prove Rivanone took an active part in the death of her companions, soon people started to murmur that marrying her simply brought bad luck. But it was not enough to discourage young and dashing men eager to prove they could survive the malediction. 

Nevertheless, it required more than courage and determination to survive a union with Rivanone, the "Belladona", the pretty but deadly lady - even if you carefully avoided battlefields or ladders…

The rumour said about her she did not have enough fingers to wear all the wedding rings she had been offered by her different husbands and enough land to burry them all… The "Merry Widow", they started to call her, and even Sigrid ignored how many times her grandmother got married and became a widower. But the fact remained that in less than fifteen years, she had totally rebuilt the financial wealth of the Bayeux family on the mortal remains of the richest Breton heirs. 

Having reached her goal, she could have remained the extremely prosperous Rivanone Bayeux widow, but probably because she was growing old and felt like it was high for her to fund a family, she took for husband Audoin Trencavel - Sigrid's grandfather. 

At least, this union seemed truly motivated by love and not by profit, and when Audoin died twenty five years later chocking on a chicken bone, Rivanone's tears were sincere. Or so they seemed, because since Sigrid had learnt by Lucien Lachance her grandmother had been one of the Speakers of the Dark Brotherhood and Vicente Valtieri's lover, she tended to assess Rivanone's acts very differently…

"So, my dear Plushie…" Rivanone carried away, her dark green eyes riveted on her pupil.

"It is _Fluff_' now and not _Plushie_ anymore…" Vicente whispered to her from the corner of his mouth, doing his best not to giggle. J'Ghasta let a groaned of displeasure out while Rivanone raised an amused eyebrow.

"Right. I won't bother ask you how my favourite pupil earned that new nickname because I fear the worst…. So, _Fluff_, what do you prefer? Licking the cobblestones of the Sanctuary until your wonderful tongue gets covered in blisters or using it to give us a little summary of the objectives of the mission which awaits us in the small town of Howldeath?"

J'Ghasta sighed heavily.

"I think I'm going to choose the second option, Master.(**3**)"

"Clever boy!" Rivanone replied, smirking. "Now, go ahead."

The Khajiit cleared his throat, and even if Sigrid could not see him because Vicente was still looking at Rivanone, she could perfectly picture him with a tensed and studious expression on his face.

"The town of Howldeath,located on the west frontier of Cyrodiil and Morrowind, represents a certain strategically interest." J'Ghasta stumbled. "Indeed, the place and the surrounding lands ensure the control of many of the passages thought the Valrus Mountains as well as over the swamps which supply in water the fertile Deshaan plains. This is why the Imperials and the Dunmer have fought over it for centuries until now. The situation is a recurring problem in the relations between Emperor Uriel Septim and King Helseth, so both conjointly decided to organise a seminar in order to settle once and for all the borders between the two regions in this part of Tamriel."

J'Ghasta stopped to take his breath back a bit before carrying on. Rivanone was listening to him carefully.

"Many important political figures of both countries will attend the conference. That's why Lady Rivanone Trencavel, as the Emperor's favourite bard, had been appointed by Uriel Septim himself to entertain the guest for the duration of the meeting. She will be accompanied by her faithful Khajiit servant J'Ghasta…" The latter made a little face here before recovering his composure. "…and her personal musician, the respected Vicente Valtieri who always walks around hooded after he got disfigured by the Purple Plague…"

At the words, the vampire had a little laugh, but J'Ghasta continued, imperturbable.

"In addition to this, Lady Rivanone Trencavel, as the Speaker of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, will gather as much information as she could on potential spies from the Morag Tong which may have infiltrated the Dunmer delegation. The latter may try to mess everything up, and as is not in the interest of the Dark Brotherhood, all necessary means should be undertaken to favour a positive issue to the negotiations." The Khajiit's tone was full of innuendo. "And this is, o Master Rivanone, what our mission will consist in Howldeath, which is certainly the worst hole of the Empire." J'Ghasta concluded. Sigrid was ready to bet he was now looking at Rivanone with a hopeful look, begging for approval.

"Not too bad, Fluff', but keep your personal remarks for yourself, they do not interest us." Rivanone said in a laconic tone despite the quick flash of anger in her eyes. J'Ghasta gulped and gave her an embarrassed smile. "Now, I just would like to add to Fluff's great exposé that there is no way you two attract more attention than needed on us, and by that I mean that_you_…" The Speaker pointed a menacing finger on J'Ghasta "… will not knock up all the girls in town whereas _you_…" the threatening finger moved in the direction of Vicente this time. "…won't leave them completely dried out of blood… Am I clear, gentlemen?"

"Yes, yes, indeed…" Vicente replied absent-minded, looking sideways at Rivanone's hips which were balancing slowly to the rhythm of the pace of her mare's walk. The Breton pretty face frowned when she realised the vampire was not paying attention to her.

"Vicente, there is a huge Land Dreugh running right in our direction…" 

This did not seem to trigger any reaction from part of the vampire, who was still glaring at Rivanone's hips hypnotically. 

"Valtieri, are you listening to me?" she asked rather briskly. "If not, I am sure I will be able to find another use for those worthless ears of yours!"

The vampire blinked several times, looked up and shot her a large smile.

"I am sorry, I did not pay attention to a single word of what you just said, o my fair lady. I was too busy marvelling over your slender figure."

Rivanone's eyes widened in surprise and her nostrils grew wider, as if she was going to yell. But instead, she started howling with laugher. Not your discreet and feminine kind of laugh, no, but rather a deep and communicative one which did not care much about social conventions and good manners.

Vicente turned around to face J'Ghasta, who was looking with circumspection at her beaming Master.

"I love the way she laughs." the vampire explained, smiling widely. The Khajiit made a face which earned him a good nudge in the ribs by Vicente.

"Don't make such a face and take notes, J'Ghasta, because, you see, this is how you must speak to a woman!"

But Sigrid never heard the end of Vicente's lesson of seduction. Suddenly, the image blurred and she found herself on the Black Pea again, her hand clutching the datadice nervously as she flew in the air toward the opposite wall of the cabin with all the other persons present and the furniture. Her back hit violently the boards while a heavy table crashed a few inch from her head. Everybody around her was yelling in both fear and pain. The torches had all turned out, plunging the room in the darkness.

"What the Oblivion happened?!" shouted someone.

"I heard something creaking!" yelled another.

At the same moment, the door of the cabin opened wide, giving way to the soaking-wet silhouette of Captain Maubrey.

"We struck a reef!" he yelled. "Everybody out! We need to evacuate the ship!"

Everybody rushed out of the cabin as one man and gathered on the deck swept across by waves and the wind. Sigrid and the others had difficulty to keep their balance and were trying to hang at everything in their reach – ropes and the like. Along the rails of the ship, sailors were busy preparing four rowboats to be launched. But it was another show which attracted her attention…

"_Clairvoix, what are these?"_ Sigrid asked the sword mentally, unable to take her eyes out of the many circle-shaped lights which were floating above the raging sea. 

There were hundred of them which were lightening up the roaring darkness of the storm. People around her had seen them too and a worried murmur rose in the air.

"_By Sithis unholy beard…"_ Clairvoix swore under its breath. _"Dimensional portals…Doors which lead to other dimensions…"_

"_Er… Am I the one who provoked that…?"_ Sigrid wondered in a tiny voice.

"_Ye gods, no! Only Gods and Daedras can create such things… __Well, the abundance of magic you provoked may have furthered the phenomenon, but something was already at work here… And that is definitely not good news. May I be dammed! I have never seen so many of them!"_

Clairvoix sounded really worried, almost panicked, and Sigrid closed her mind quickly in order to avoid being contaminated by it. Those portals were indeed extremely disturbing, but she had more urgent things to deal with at the moment, like saving her life…

Sigrid took the hand a sailor was offering her to get into one of the rowboats when, all of a sudden, her face turned into a pure mask of horror.

"Oh Gods, Clairvoix!" she yelled. "We forgot…! The toad! The books!"

"What?" the sailor asked, blinking.

"_What?!"_ the sword barked in her head.

"The toad and the books are still in my cabin!" Sigrid yelled. "I forgot to take them!"

The simple thought literally cut Sigrid's breath. Scribonius' books and all her notes on them, the only sources of information she had on Foodoo. She needed to retrieve them at all cost or else…

With a scream of despair, she pushed the sailor who was standing in front of her and rushed toward the trapdoor leading to the lower decks.

"Miss Doe!" Captain Maubrey yelled behind her. "What the…!" 

But it was too late. Sigrid had already jumped through the trapdoor.

7777777777777777777

Several miles away from the _Black Pea_, tortured by the storm, _the Floated Bloat_ was living its last moments…

"We need to abandon the ship, J'Ghasta!" Lucien yelled, trying to cover with his voice the howling of the wind as well as the rumbling of the thunder and the raging sea. 

"No way!" roared the Khajiit who was hugging the last of the masts as if it was mother's legs.

"The darn stuff is about to sink! We must go now or else it will drag us in the abyssal plains!"

"Aaaaargh!" screamed a voice, and Lucien turned around to check what was going on behind him.

At the stern of the boat, Graman and Ormil were fighting to hold over the rail with ropes a small makeshift raft Lucien had ordered them to prepare when he had realised the _Floated Bloat _would not be able to survive such a storm.

"Move your ass!" Graman shouted. "We won't be able to hold the darn thing forever!" 

"You have heard the Orc, J'Ghasta!" Lucien yelled again. "So don't be silly and come here!" 

"No! I don't know how to swim!" the Khajiit replied stubbornly.

"Of course you do! The fact you loath water doesn't prevent you to swim!"

"It does!"

Lucien tried to control the wave of rage which was menacing to make his chest exploding. To think that, belonging to the Cathay-rath family of Khajiits, J'Ghasta was more related to tigers than your basic house cat and thus was supposed to be a good swimmer…

"Why do I have to drag along the only Khajiit who is scared of water?" Lucien complained, calling upon the wild sky as a witness. 

"That's enough!" Graman yelled. "We are leaving! You two just have to manage things alone!" 

And he dropped his rope. The back side of the raft lowered down and started to float on the water.

"Catch your rope back!" barked Lucien.

The Orc had a nasty smile and tried to make a paralysed-with-fear-Ormil let his rope go.

"Or else what, dude? If you come here to give me a good trashing, it will be too late for your friend over there…!"

"I told you to catch your rope back!" Lucien repeated and this time he raised his fist, ready to cast a spell. 

Graman shot him a look full of despise. Ormil had finally let his rope go and was letting the Orc helping him to step over the rail to jump on the raft which was floating a few meters below.

"You looked for it!" Lucien roared, and Graman just had the time to jump backward when a fireball just went under his nose.

"You missed me, dude!" laughed the Orc. But his laugh died in his throat when he heard a loud noise coming from above his dead. He looked upward, imitated by Lucien and Ormil.

Of course, how could Lucien have known the storm he and his companions were currently caught in had been provoked by a magical overabundance in the region, and that throwing spells was highly _not_ recommended? Well, obviously, there was always a little margin which allowed a few spells to be cast before reaching the critical point, but sadly, this margin had been largely reduced by Sigrid and the others mages who were certainly navigating on other ships in the surroundings. And Lucien's spell had been the last straw… 

All the incredible level of energy accumulated now demanded to be released, and the fire spell used by the assassin acted as a magnet. All the magic forces in the area were gathering over the _Floated Bloat_, forming above the ship a sinister funnel of dark clouds in which a column of pure energy was clustering…

"Oops…" the assassin said in a tiny voice, and, as quick and supple as a cat, he jumped toward J'Ghasta.

And there was a big flash of pink light. 

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"_Sigrid! Stop! It's too late!"_ Clairvoix yelled desperately in her head. _"The books must be sodden and useless by now! And who gives a shit about that stupid animal…? Damn it, stop! STOP I SAID!"_

"Miss Doe! Come back! It's too dangerous!" Captain Maubrey and the crew were screaming from the upper deck.

But the sword and the sailors were shouting themselves hoarse in vain as Sigrid was not listening. Her eyes wide with rage and anguish, short of breath, she was fighting against the constant flood of salty water which was making her eyes sting and which force was beating against her waist and belly. A few torches were miraculously still burning in the corridor, allowing her to notice the importance of the damages…

The second lower deck of the Black Pea was already half flooded and Sigrid had passed by the huge break which had partly torn open the ship's hull under the waterline. The Captain was right, the ship should be evacuated quickly because given the speed with which it was emptying itself, it would reached the bottom of the sea in less than half an hour…

Still struggling against the current, Sigrid managed to reach her cabin, half flooded like the rest of the deck. Pieces of wood, clothes, boots and other unidentifiable things were floating on the water. But no sign of the books. 

"_They must have drowned. If I dive, maybe I could find them on the floor?" _she thought.

"_Forget about it!"_ Clairvoix exclaimed as it read her mind. _"The ink of venerable books is not renowned for being waterproof!"_

"I must try or else I will regret it for the rest of my life!" Sigrid replied.

Suddenly, something floating on the water caught her eyes. The jar. And in it, was the toad.

The poor creature was gesticulating helplessly in the container as it tried to get out. It stopped its useless fight against the glassy walls of its prison and looked relieved when Sigrid took the jar in her arms.

"_Right, you have __your damn toad! Could we leave now before you get killed and I end up for eternity in the abyss?"_ Clairvoix asked impatiently.

"No. I need to find the books first!"

But she could not dive with the jar which was partly full of air. And she could not let the toad go either… She rolled her eyes. Why her? 

With a big resigned sigh, she opened the jar, took the toad out unceremoniously and raised it to her face so she could look right into its bulky eyes. The toad blinked and gulped under her gaze.

"Listen, Toad." Sigrid started, shaking a finger under the nose of the animal. "I am pretty sure you are cleverer than you actually look, so you must know we are in big trouble here and it is no time to make a fuss. Now I am going to put you down in my corset and you will stay there until I tell you to get out, all right?"

And without waiting for a sign of agreement from the creature, she stuffed it head first in between her boobs. The toad helplessly flapped his long legs in the air before disappearing with a wet "slurp!" noise in the depths of Sigrid's cleavage.

Once she was sure the animal was unable to get out, the girl took a deep breath and dived. 

The water was dark and her vision was blurred, but she nevertheless tried to probe the bottom with her hands, without much success. Soon, her lungs started to burn her and she had to surface again. Half crying in rage, she took her breath back and dived again. She repeated the move several times until something grabbed her by the shoulder. Yelping in fear, Sigrid turned around to find herself facing a rather incensed Captain Maubrey.

"You must come back, Miss Doe! You are risking everybody's life by forcing us to wait for you!" he barked. He was so angry he was scarlet in the face and veins were bulging on his muscled neck. 

"Who cares?! Just leave me there, I don't think anyone will mind!"

"Come here!" roared the Captain as he tried unsuccessfully to immobilise Sigrid. "Don't you think the madness had last enough?!"

"No!" she shrieked back, trying to scratch his face with her nails. "Leave me alo…!"

Sigrid's hysterical screams were brutally interrupted when Maubrey's fist crushed her mouth. The violence of the blow momentarily knocked off the girl, who collapsed, motionless, in the Captain's arms. The latter charged her on one of his shoulders and quickly got back toward the trapdoor, but not before stopping by the first deck where sailors were bustling around the_Black Pea_'s engine. 

Many pipes and bolts were lying on the ground all around the room, but it did not seem to worry the Captain much. To the contrary, he seemed rather pleased. 

"So, guys?" Captain Maubrey asked. "Is it working?"

"Aye aye, Sir, it is!" one of the seamen replied cheerfully. "And if I may say, you are a genius, Sir!"

The Captain grinned and climbed up the ladder which leaded to the upper deck. In his back, Sigrid grunted as she was slowly coming back to her senses.

Maubrey braced himself to face the raging elements again, but as he peered over the trapdoor, he found a very quiet environment. No more wind, no more waves and the night sky was perfectly clear from any kind of clouds…

Blinking in astonishment, he heaved himself up and cleared a way for himself among the surviving members of the crew who were cleaning the deck from fragments of wood, ropes – and sometimes from the corpse of dead sailors… All the passengers had gathered at the bow of the ship and they cheered when they saw Maubrey.

"Is the storm over?" the latter asked in a sceptical voice as he got near the little group. "But a few minutes ago, it was still raging…!"

"Lightening fall not very far from us, Captain." Endras the Bosmer explained. "And almost immediately afterward, things started to calm down…It is a miracle, really!"

"And congratulations for your heroic behaviour, Captain! You have saved Miss Doe!" Lady Thelas said, clapping enthusiastically in her hands. "We were all so worried for her…!"

There was a concert of coughs as the passengers around her did not really seem to share her point of view.

"Well, I wasn't!" Maubrey replied, throwing brutally a moaning Sigrid in the arms of Lady Thelas. "If I went to fetch her, it's only because I'm paid to keep my passengers well and alive… But if she tries something stupid again, I swear I will throw her overboard!"

Ignoring Lady Thelas's shocked expression, the Captain then turned his attention toward a silhouette that had just materialised by his side in position of attention.

"Yes, Mister Fenwick?"

"What are the orders, Captain? Are we still evacuating the ship?" the First Mate asked.

"No, it is not necessary for the moment. We have managed to reverse the pump of the engine in order to make it suck up the water from the second deck via the pipes." Maubrey said proudly. "It should ensure the floatability of the _Black Pea_ for a while, but that means we can't use the engine as a mean of propulsion anymore and will have to use the sails instead."

"Shouldn't not be a problem, Sir." Mister Fenwick commented. "But the Black Pea won't be able to sail that way forever…"

The Captain scratched his chin, looking thoughtful.

"Indeed. And that's why we will head toward Leyawin." The Captain looked up at the stars and his trained mind quickly calculated the approximate position of the Black Pea. "The storm has pushed us toward the west coast – which explains why we hit the reefs. But I don't think we have moved south too much, thus Leyawin is closer to us than Senchal…"

The Captain's remark provoked a little scream and all head turned toward Lady Thelas. Still stuck in the Dunmer's lap, Sigrid had recovered her mind and was watching at the Captain in dismay.

"No. Not Lewayin!" she said in a very weary voice as she tried to sit up. "We can't go back to Cyrodiil…!"

"I'm afraid your opinion on the subject doesn't really matter, Miss Doe…" the Captain interrupted her with a sarcastic smile. "We're going back to Leyawin where we'll make the necessary repairs to continue our trip to Senchal." he continued, speaking this time to all the travellers. "Of course, this will take time and I encourage those who are in a hurry to find another way of travelling – by foot, for example…" And he shot a meaningful glance at Sigrid, who was about to protest again. But Lady Thelas forced her to lie down again.

"Hush, sweetie…" Lady Thelas whispered kindly.

Vanquished by both tiredness and pain, the girl let herself go in the Dunmer's embrace. Leyawin… All this trouble, for nothing! It was as if she was going back to square one…

She gritted her teeth. Her brain was starting to throb hard and so were her lips where Captain Maubrey had hit her. Trying not to move her head to much, she looked down at her chest to check if the toad was still at its place – which was fortunately the case.

The creature had installed itself comfortably in the girl's cleavage with only its tiny head adorned with its pair of antennas getting out from in between her breast. It looked absolutely delighted.

Sigrid had a relieved smile and allowed herself to slip in the black tunnel of unconsciousness.

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The surface of the sea was very smooth, and all was dark. A white mist was rising from the water, and everything was quiet. Very quiet. Too quiet…

"Well, you know, when you think of it, it was kind of fun!" said a cheerful voice, breaking up the silence.

"Shut up, Ormil..."

The little raft was drifting on the sea. Or rather, _a_ sea, because none of the shipwreck victims had any idea of where they were… The four men – that is, an Imperial, a Khajiit, a High Elf and an Orc – were huddled up together on the few boards and barrels they used as a raft, a terrible expression of weariness on their face, except for Ormil, who, for some reason, seemed rather pleased and for the parrot perched on Lucien's shoulder, which was carefully preening its multicoloured feathers with its beak.

"No, I mean, it really _was_!" Ormil continued in a very enthusiast tone. "I loved so much the bit when, just before the light stroke the ship, Lucien jumped on his friend and bit his tail to make him let go…"

"You just have been told to shut your fucking mouth, Ormil!" J'Ghasta spat as he grabbed the tip of his tail and started stroking it. "So, either you obey or I swear I will throw you in the water!"

"Shuuuuuuut up, Orrrrrrrmil!" cackled the parrot.

"That goes for you too, Polly!"

"And the way he dragged you in the water to catch with the drifting raft… We were lucky to have been pushed with it by the waves though one of those strange glowing doors." the High Elf said in a dreamy voice. "Otherwise, we would have been crushed by the wreck of the _Floated Bloat_…"

J'Ghasta's eyes narrowed and he glared for a while at Ormil in silence. The latter had a freaky and faraway smile on the face, and the Khajiit wondered if he still had all his marbles...

"Yeah, very lucky indeed…" J'Ghasta finally snarled, before turning toward Lucien who was sitting just behind him. The assassin was busy drawing up the inventory of his bag he had managed to save from the wreck, but given his disenchanted pout, it was not brilliant. "Do you have any idea of where we are?"

Lucien closed his bag with a sigh, looked upward and started watching the sky which remained visible through the coils of fog.

"Well, given the sky is dark purple and has four moons instead of two, I guess we are in another dimension" he commented in an ironic tone. "The thing is I have no idea which one…"

Graman, who was sitting by him, had a derisive laugh.

"Well spotted, dude! And do you have any other valuable to share with us right now?"

Lucien bared his teeth at the Orc but a clicking of J'Ghasta's tongue ordered him calm down. 

"Next time you feel like sailing, you morons," Graman continued apparently unmoved by Lucien's aggressiveness, "be nice and try to steal a boat on which I am not, all right?"

"Next time I am trying to save your stupid ass, try to simply obey and not stab me in the back, all right?" Lucien snapped back.

"Save my stupid ass!? You sly bastard is only waiting for me and Ormil to be useless to kill us, and you would like us to feel grateful toward _you_?!"

"What a shame we all have lost our shoes!" Ormil happily interrupted them. "We could have eaten them... Because I guess that now we are going to starve to death." He giggled as if he found the prospect particularly amusing. "Or maybe you guys are going to eat me? This is what shipwreck victims usually do. They eat the weakest..." 

There was an embarrassed silence, only troubled by the lapping of the water against the boards of the raft.

"Stop saying claptraps. No one is going to eat you, Ormil." Graman grumbled. But he did not really sound convinced by his own words, and, to make things worst, his tummy started to rumbled. The three companions carefully try not to look at each other until J'Ghasta cleared his throat.

"Maybe we could eat the parrot?" the Khajiit ventured with a hint of hope in the voice. 

"I wonder if our new friend like chicken…" Ormil replied in a thoughtful voice.

At the words, a little alarm bell started ringing in Lucien's head.

"Our… new friend?"

"Yeah, the one over there, with four big yellow eyes and plenty of tentacles!" the High Elf exclaimed merrily, pointing at something.

Lucien turned in the direction the High Elf was indicating at once, quickly imitated by Graman and J'Ghasta. The three of them froze in horror. 

A few feet from them, four huge yellowish globes, each one the size of a man and overhanging an equally huge and sharp beak, were looking at the raft and its occupants. A dozens of tentacles were getting out of the water and flapping around in the air. Even if it was hard to determine an expression on such an oblivionish mix of a squid and an octopus, it seemed to be rather intrigued… 

Lucien gulped and swore under his breath. Apart from the tiny ebony dagger and Arius' Super Survival Cleaning Kit in his bad, no one on the raft had a weapon, and he doubted his poor abilities at magic would be able to do anything against such a monster… Of course, there was still J'Ghasta and his incredible hand-to-hand fighting abilities but they should seriously be revised downwards because of the presence of water… 

"What… do we do… now?" Graman asked from a corner of his mouth.

"Try not to move." Lucien whispered. "Animals tend to think that way: 'if it is not moving, it is not interesting.'"

"Let's just hope this monstrous squid is not the curious type then…"

Unfortunately for them, they never had the occasion to test Lucien's theory, because Ormil – who had completely cracked up – had just got up on his feet and was waving his arms enthusiastically at the giant octopus…

"Oh, hellooooo, tentacular friend!" the High Elf called out.

"Shut your fucking trap!" Lucien yelled in horror, his unusual rudeness translating his high level of stress.

But it was too late. The eyes of the creature widened in surprise before turning from yellow to red. And, in a gushing of spume and tentacles, it charged.

"Aleeeeert! Aleeeeeeeeert! Crrrrrrr!" screamed the parrot, rising in the air high above the raft.

"Jump!" yelled Graman as he grabbed Ormil by the arm and leapt in the water.

Lucien did the same with J'Ghasta and dived in the dark water just before the terrible tentacles crushed the raft. He struggled under water among the pieces of the raft before he managed to swim to the surface. Bits of wood were floating around, but there was no sign of…

"J'Ghasta!" Lucien shouted, scanning the surface around him. He located Graman and Ormil who were swimming not too far from him. They seemed all right, but J'Ghasta remained invisible.

"Here!" said a croaky voice on Lucien's right and the latter sighed in relief.

The Kahjiit was located a few feet away from him, swimming like a dog.

"I-'m-going-to-drown-I-'m-going-to-drown-I-'m-going-to-drown …" he was repeating over and over again, doing his best to maintain his muzzle above the water, his face frozen in an expression of pure horror.

"Where is the squid?!" Lucien asked.

The Khajiit interrupted his little ritornello to point at something in his back.

"Right behind you!"

The squid was indeed several cables away from the little groups and making a u-turn. Once it was done, it stopped and its eyes scanned the water, apparently gauging the situation and preparing its next move.

Lucien decided to make the most of this little respite to calm down and to try to think of something clever to get out of this tricky situation.

Slowly recovering his breath, he quickly assessed the means he had at his disposal. J'Ghasta was hors de combat, Graman and Ormil were not fighters which left him virtually alone to fight the squid… Great…

Keeping his eyes on the octopus which was now describing circles around them like a shark, Lucien checked nervously again the content of its small bag… There was nothing he could do with his ebony dagger – apart perhaps from scraping clean the monster's teeth (**4**). The skin of the squid was too thick, thus leaving the eyes as the only visible and accessible weak point. But Lucien was not sure gouging its eyes would be enough… Indeed, maybe the squid could relied on other senses, like hearing, taste or Sithis knew what... No, he needed something which could hurt the creature more deeply…

His eyes suddenly widened as his fingers tightened on Arius' Cleaning Kit.

"Graman!" he yelled. "I think I have an idea to save our lives, but I need you guys to create a distraction."

The Orc almost strangled with surprise and shock.

"What do you have in mind?" J'Ghasta asked.

"A diversion?" Graman screamed back at Lucien. "Are you completely nuts?! We are going to get killed!"

"We are going to get killed anyway if we don't try anything!" Lucien replied. He stopped when he realised the circles of the squid were getting closer. "Graman… Please…I need your help!"

The Orc looked very sceptical, but the assassin's very unlikely plea seemed to win him over.

"Ah, right!" he spat, before turning around and gesticulating like mad in the direction of the giant squid. "Hey, you, the nightmarish stuff! Yeah, you! What do you think of swallowing three delicious snacks!?" 

The creature shook its tentacles in the air, yelled in anger and charged again right on the swimmers, which was exactly Lucien was looking for. With a quick breaststroke, the assassin swam ahead of it, and as the creature was standing a few meters from him, he dived just underneath it.

A he did so he felt tentacles passing by him at high speed and managed to grab one of them. He then began to climb along the long and slippery limb, fighting against the current which speed was deforming his facial feature. Out of breath, he finally managed to get out of the water and continued to climb along the back of the squid toward what should be called its face for lack of another appropriate word.

Once arrived at the top of the monster's head, Lucien made a quick break to reassess his situation. 

Apparently, the creature had still not noticed Lucien's presence on its body, probably because its skin was too thick and because it was too busy trying to squash the assassin's companions with its tentacles.

The latter were diving and swimming around in a helpless ballet to save their lives, but they were clearly showing sign of exhaustion…

Suddenly, the squid made an abrupt move which threw Lucien off balance. The Imperial slipped along the creature's forehead and landed violently astride the beak of the squid. His eyes watered in pain and his hands moved by themselves toward his crotch.

"Holy craaaap…" he squeaked between gritted teeth. By Sithis, if he continued at this pace to receive blows in this particular part of his anatomy, he could soon reconvert himself as a eunuch…

But Lucien did not loose more time pondering over his misfortune. The monster had stopped moving and its four eyes were squinting on him. In addition, the shadow which had just appeared over his head indicated him the squid was about to slap him with one of its tentacle…

With a scream, Lucien retrieved his dagger and the disinfectant from his bag and slashed the eyes of the squid one after the other before pouring the corrosive liquid right in the wounds. He then heaved himself and fall into the water, a few meters away from his companions. 

The effect of the product on the mucous membrane of the animal was instantaneous. A foaming substance started to rise for the squid's face while the tender flesh of its eyes was quickly being eaten away.

The squid beat the water helplessly with its tentacles and gave a series of harrowing screams as it slowly sunk under the water. There was a big splash of water. And then everything became quiet again.

"It… It's gone…?" Graman asked after a while in a timid voice. Around them, the fog was slowly disappearing, as if its presence was linked to the one of the monster.

"It seems so…" Lucien replied, looking at the bloody bubbles which were foaming at the surface where the monster had disappeared. He then turned toward J'Ghasta. "Remind me to give Arius a big hug and a bonus when we will come back home!"

J'Ghasta nodded frantically while still making great efforts to maintain himself above the surface. Swimming by him, Ormil was giggling stupidly, murmuring from times to times things like "squiddy!". As for Graman, he was appraising Lucien with an almost admiring gleam in the eyes.

"I don't know if you have noticed, but you just did something very insane and courageous…" the Orc pointed out in a very careful tone.

"Yes, I know." The Imperial replied equally carefully.

The two stopped glaring at each other when J'Ghasta had another series cough meaning "excuse-me-but…"

"Sorry, guys. I don't like to play the killjoy…" the Khajiit started, "but we are far from being out of trouble. To start with, we are still stuck in this unknown dimension…"

"Polly foooound a craaaacker!" a scream interrupted him.

"Hey, it's Polly!" Graman exclaimed cheerfully, turning its head in the direction of the parrot's cry. The bird was flying about fifty meters from them, right in front of what looked like…

"A dimensional gate?" J'Ghasta asked, mesmerised. "_This stupid chicken has found a dimensional gate?" _

"Craaaaacker!" cackled the parrot again, flying excitedly around the portal.

An amazed silence fall on the group.

"Well, I think we have found the answer to your problem, J'Ghasta!" Lucien said cheerfully.

But far from being pleased, the Khajiit looked rather suspicious.

"That door was not there a moment ago, I would swear it…" J'Ghasta grumbled in a suspicious tone. "Maybe we should wait a bit…?"

"Waiting for what?" Lucien retorted. "Swimming until we die of exhaustion?"

"You two do whatever you feel like, but I'm going to cross that gate." Graman said firmly. And dragging Ormil in his wake, he started swimming toward the luminous hole.

Lucien raised an eyebrow toward J'Ghasta before following Graman and Ormil.

"Hey, all I was saying was just all this seemed a bit strange, that's all!" the Khajiit exclaimed. "Since when portals appear like that, out of nowhere, especially when you need one? And why isn't anyone listening to…? Hey, wait for me!"

And the little group left the purple Universe of the Giant Squid, for the best – or the worst…

(**1**) This idea was stolen by the author to the Vampire Apple who, as the Evil Apple she is, is certainly going to take a terrible and painful revenge over her very soon…

(**2**) Against all odds, the Dark Guardians of the Dark Brotherhood disposed of a wild range of vocabulary expressed though the different inflexions they put into their "Gak" as shown by the few examples quoted bellow: 

"Gak.": oh, I am fine, thank you. What about you?

"Gak.": Could your dog bring me my shinbone back, please? I badly need it to crawl around like the undead I am.

"Gak.": We need to restructure the socio-economical fabric which tends to be endemically weak since the end of the Third Era and of its traditional familial model.

Well, of course, this requires a very well trained hear...

(**3**) Rivanone Trencavel was a true Feminist who hated above all the feminisation of certain words, hence her will to be called "Master" instead of "Mistress."

Obviously, being a feminist on Nirn was a bit different than being one on Earth, and if Rivanone was not marching in the street burning her bra, she was quite good at strangling male chauvinists with it. 

(**4**) The author perfectly knows that squids don't have teeth. But as the specimen considered here comes from a parallel universe, it has teeth. Yes. It has. Because the author said so and because she sucks hard at zoology.


	7. Of Travels and Exoticism

**Chapter 6**** – Of Travels and Exoticism**

**Imagining**** the past of some characters can be entertaining, particularly the evil ones'. As Raven Studio said, it is fun to see bad people acting normally. (giggles) And when it is necessary for the plot to develop, there is no reason to hesitate!**

**Oh, and I guess I should give credit to Boney M for some of the madness in this chapter… Yeah, I like disco music? So what ? ;P (embarrassed cough) **

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"Place! Make place for ubasi Raksada!"

The colourful crowd scattered as a richly decorated litter surrounded by many guards and servants was pushing its way through the busy and noisy streets of Torval. It was really early in the morning, and, as usual, the inhabitants of the city were trying to make the most of the fresh hours to carry out their occupations before the heat became too unbearable. And in Elsweyr, "unbearable" meant being roasted alive – or steamed if you lived in the tropical regions.

"Place, I said!" barked on of the guard again as he whipped a bystander whose flock of goats which was not moving aside quickly enough.

Contrary to their Cyrodiilian counterparts, straight as die and perfectly arranged, the Elsweyrian cities were the nightmare of all urban engineers with their mazes of small streets which did not obey to any kind of logic and were always crowded with people and animals, their buildings of red clay piling up on one another in a cheerful anarchic way and their nonexistent sewers system. And obviously, Torval, Elsweyr's administrative capital, was no exception to this, to the greatest displeasure and disgust of the occupant of the litter…

While his equipage was continuing its difficult progress, Raksada had opened his curtains a bit and did not make any effort to hide his sheer repulsion toward the sight offered to him.

By the Daedras, how he hated Elsweyr… Everything was an insult to his awesomely superior Elven senses: the smells, the heat, the noise, the dust, the insects, the _people_…

Suddenly, a pig chased by a young boy emerged from a parallel street and passed just in front in the litter, forcing it to swerve. The brutal move made Raksada flew in the back of his cabin.

"_Damn Khajiits!"_ he thought he pushed away angrily the silky cushions from his face.

How could one consider seriously such, superstitious, gullible and mewing folks – no, no, not folks. Beasts! – as a _sapient_ specie? Ah, what he would not have given to be in Mournhold and to revel into the exquisite sophistication of the Dunmer civilisation...!

Raksada sighed and started to look outside again. Yes, one day he would be back, but for the moment, there was still a lot to do _here_…

His eyes moved from the show of the Elsweyrian streets to a cloud of reddish dust which was rising in the distance, just outside the city walls. A satisfied smile stretched his thin lips at the sight. The building work was going well, much better than he had initially planned, and this was definitely good news, because, on the other fronts, the situation was not as brilliant…

The Dark Elf sighed heavily and closed his curtain. At least, he had nipped in the bud the rebellion fomented by this big moronic brute of Dro'Ba, nevertheless Raksada was not sure it would be enough to reassure Incosi Sha'ka. Especially if the king already got to hear of the _other _pieces of news…

But the Dark Elf would soon find out as his litter had finally arrived in front of the Kraal of Torval, the seat of the government established by Incosi Sha'ka. The latter had razed the former old clay-made construction to make a more "modern" Kraal, and the building was the only monument in the city to be made out of real stone – white marble sent at great expense from Cyrodiil. The rumour said it was Raksada who supervised most of the building work, which explained why the fortress Sha'ka had in mind finally turned out to look more like a sophisticated palace than a stronghold…

When the litter finally stopped in front of the monumental stairs which lead to the entrance of the palace, one of the Khajiit servants rushed on one side of the litter and threw himself to the ground on all fours. Almost as simultaneously, Raksada got out and the servant winced when the Dunmer leaned heavily on him to get down, thrusting his heels in his back.

The Dark Elf's leather sandals had not yet touched the ground that, as if they were especially waiting for him, a swarm of flies immediately attacked him from all sides.

"_Damn insects!"_ he enraged while shaking his flyswatter around in vain attempts to chase them. _"Is that country plotting against me to make my life an absolute Oblivion?!"_

"Ah, ubasi Raksada, you are back!" said a breathless voice on his right.

The Dunmer stopped his rather undignified gesticulation and tried to recover a more noble composure before turning toward his interlocutor. Before him was standing King Sha'ka's main chamberlain, an old man Raksada had never managed to remember the name – and had never made the effort to, actually…

"_Yes, I am back, you old moronic moth-eaten carpet."_ Raksada thought, trying to hide the disgust the Kahjiit was inspiring him. _"Which probably explains why I am standing here in front of you…By Sheogorath's Staff, why do people have to be so stupid?!"_

"Incosi Sha'ka demands to see you without any delay." the Chamberlain carried on. "He wants to discuss with you extremely urgent matters…"

The Dark Elf's eyes narrowed slightly. The sly and pleased expression on the Khajiit's did not bode well, because, for some reason, people tended to rejoice in Raksada's presence only when the latter was in deep trouble.

Actually, to qualify the Dunmer as unpopular was the euphemism of the Era. He was simply and purely abhorred by the Khajiit population. But he was dreaded too. And he had been Sha'ka's right hand for decades, which was granting him a certain influence over the newly appointed ruler of Elsweyr and on all the political taken by the latter. Indeed, did not the rumour say about Raksada that, in all affair of state, he was the man to please – but that he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze ?(**1**)

But there were so many rumours that were going round him... Some said that, despite his very young appearance, he was so old he had seen the setting up of the rule of the Tribunal in Morrowind, that his magical powers had no cause to be envious of the greatest of all mages in Tamriel's history, that there would be a major war between all the evil entities known on Nirn because they all could claim ownership over his soul and that his sexual appetite has no limits. But in this tissues of lies – often carefully exuded by Raksada himself – were hiding a few truths…

In fact, despite his fine physique with his toned body, his long dark curly hair and his natural stylishness, Raksada had absolutely no interest into squeezing girls – or boys, to that matter… – and unrestrained sexual orgies. Politics, on the other hand, was all his life was about. And by politics, he actually meant _Politics_, with a capital "P" as in "Power", "Plots" and "Pawning-everyone-to-become-Mister-Number-One".

It was well known that if Sha'ka was the military genius behind the victories which had allowed him to have most of the southern tribes and lands of Elsweyr under his thumb in just a few months, Raksada was Sha'ka's éminence grise and the political mastermind who had concluded all the political alliances consolidating the position of the victor.

"Hmmm, did Incosi Sha'ka give you more details about the aforementioned 'extremely urgent matters'?" Raksada asked in a cough. _"Forewarned is forearmed."_ he added to himself mentally.

"He wanted to make you the surprise, o ubasi." replied the Khajiit looked beside himself with joy and Raksada felt a bit of apprehension rising in his chest. All this was really ominous…

"_Damn servant!"_ thought the Dark Elf. _"You and the others are dreaming of Sha'ka bumping me off, hey? But this won't happen - and I should stop saying 'damn' all the time, it is becoming a bad language habit…"_

Not wishing to annoy the king even more by making him waiting, Raksada quickly took his leave from the Chamberlain, climbed the stairs in double-quick time and ran along the corridors of the palace. And it is a bit out of breath he finally arrived in the stateroom.

It was quite vast one, and despite the unique and massive Redguardian openwork designed window made into one of the wall, it remained very dark, much closer to the Elsweyrian taste – or lack of it in Raksada's opinion – in term of interior decorating than he rest of the palace.

Numerous war shields painted in bright colours and strange patterns were hanging on the wall, sharing the space with different kind of assegais and spears as well as with the pelts and skins of most of the fauna living in Elsweyr.

At the far end of the room was a platform on which was resting a throne. And on the throne was sitting a Cathay Khajiit with the dark fur typical of the tribes living in the tropical forests. He was wearing the traditional outfit of the Khajiit of the south, that is to say a very colourful loincloth, a pair of leather sandals and a lot of jewellery made out of leather, bones and shells. Only the silver and golden headband he was wearing was indicating his rank.

King Sha'ka was bending over the desk which had been brought in front of him to allow him to do his paperwork. The Khajiit seemed engrossed in reading a parchment and had not bothered to raise his head when his advisor had entered the room, but Raksada had known the Khajiit long enough to know the latter was carefully observing him nevertheless.

"_Bayete_, Incosi! Hail, o King of Kings!" Raksada said, deeply bowing in front of his sovereign as he greeted him in the traditional Elsweyrian fashion.

When he lifted up again, Sha'ka had raised his head from his paperwork and was glaring at him in silence.

"I have excellent news, Incosi! I just came back from Valley Guard and …"

Raksada broke off, his eyes having just stopped on a motionless form lying a few feet from the king on the ground and – element which was worth taking into account – the Dunmer noted how it was bathing in a pool of blood…

"I think I already have been informed of your… _excellent _news, Raksada." Sha'ka replied in a deep voice. The Khajiit got up from his throne and pushed the immobile figure with his foot. The thing tumbled down the few steps before landing in front of the Dunmer.

"Woe to the bearer of bad news…" Raksada murmured as he examined the face of the dead messenger who was lying on the ground, his throat literally torn off.

"Indeed…" Sha'ka replied with a smirk. "And now, o my most devoted councillor and friend, would you mind explaining me in what _this_ can be considered as excellent news?"

The Khajiit lord shook the piece of parchment right under Raksada's nose. The latter carefully took it in between two fingers as if it was going to explode right in his face and his red irises started to scan the content of the message.

"Ah. The Empire is sending us emissaries…" commented the Dunmer after a while, rolling the parchment back and scratching his chin carefully with it. "Well, such a move had to be expected, o Incosi. Chancellor Ocato could not stay with his arms crossed while we were unhurriedly undermining the few authority and control the Empire still had over Elsweyr…"

At the words, Sha'ka's face turned into a mask of pure rage. He gave a terrible roar which echoed along the corridors of his palace, making a group of cockatoos who was drinking in a basin outside flew away in panic. He then grabbed Raksada's neck in one of his powerful paws, lifting him a few inches above the ground. The Dunmer winced while his hands instinctively clutched the Khajiit's wrist.

"You said Ocato was far too busy dealing with the quarrels within the Council of Elders and with the stabs in the back of King Helseth of Morrowind to interfere in our business!" the king yelled in Raksada's face.

"He…is, Incosi. He… really is…" the latter gargled. "This is why… I think he is… sending us emissaries and not a whole… contingent… of Imperial Legionnaires."

Sha'ka brought the Dark Elf right under his muzzle and tightened his grip a little more on his councillor's throat. The latter felt the bones in his neck creaking a bit.

"You'd better be right, Raksada. _Or else_…!" growled the Khajiit.

And to punctuate his sentence, the king violently threw away Raksada, who collapsed on the ground, coughing and massaging his bruised throat. Sha'ka turned is back to him, walked toward the impressive window and leaned against on of its jambs, his arms crossed on his chest.

"_You are lucky I still need you, Sha'ka… But this little incident will earn you a long and painful death soon."_ thought the Dunmer, his eyes shooting Sha'ka a murderous glance. _"_Very_ soon…"_

"And now, what are we going to do?" the King continued, a faraway look in the eyes as he watched the landscape before him. "We easily crushed the few garrisons the Council had left in Elsweyr because they were numerically inferior and badly prepared. But I really don't have the means at the moment for a military confrontation with the Empire Legions. Because, no need to bury our face in the sand, I seriously doubt the emissaries are going to be please with what they are going to find here…"

Simultaneously, the eyes of the Khajiit and the Dunmer moved toward the huge building site outside the city which had attracted Raksada's attention earlier and which was visible from the window.

"This won't be necessary, Incosi." the Dark Elf said in a hoarse voice. He made a face, stopped and coughed to clear his hurt throat before carrying on. "All we need is to play for time, and there are many way to do that other than wage war on the Imperial forces... We will find a way to neutralise those emissaries – whoever they may be – until we are ready. And the time for the Empire to react, there actually won't be an Empire to be a problem to us anymore…"

"The end of the grip of the Cyrodiilian Empire over Tamriel – and the rise to the power of Elsweyr…" the king whispered.

Sha'ka came back into the room and Raksada could see he was smiling widely, the whiteness of his teeth accentuated by his dark fur and darkness of the room. But his face suddenly became all stern and worried again.

"Unfortunately, this could only be achieved if we find _them_…"

Raksada winced mentally. Ah, yes. _Them… _The main flaw in the Dunmer's ingenious plan which had allowed Sha'ka to rise to power.

"They could not have gone far away, o Incosi." The Raksada replied in an appeasing voice. "We made sure they have nowhere to hide and will not be able to find any kind of support… It is just a matter of time before they will fall into our hands."

"The Virgins of Dagomey should not be underestimated, o ubasi Raksada." a soft and lilting voice interrupted him. "You did it once, and this enabled them to escape."

There was a metallic sound from behind the throne and a slender, not-so-much-dressed but covered-in-jewellery silhouette materialised by Sha'ka. At the sight, a nasty smirk materialised on Raksada's face.

"Ah, Princess Naandi. I should have known you were not far away… The smell of affairs of State attracts you as honey attracts bees." said Raksada politely in spite of the actual comparison he had in mind implied more big greenish flies rather than cute little bees.

"They indeed attract me as much as contemplating your face revolt me, ubasi." the female Khajiit replied in an equally courteous tone.

The king burst out laughing at the young female's sally while Raksada's smile froze a bit. No wonder why Sha'ka was so annoyed against him. It was odds on that the pretty Naandi put her husband Sha'ka on him, because Princess, which fur was as pale as Sha'ka's was dark, was nothing less than Raksada's worst nightmare in Elsweyr.

"There are no more Virgins of Dagomey, Princess." Raksada said with a malicious smile. "No more Mane, no more Moons Staff, no more stupid beliefs, I saw to that."

"We both know it is not entirely true, ubasi." Naandi retorted in a soft voice.

Their glances clashed until Sha'ka interrupted their silent confrontation.

"So, do you have any news of the fugitives?" the king asked his First Councillor.

"My men have picked up their trail, Incosi." the Dunmer replied. "They should catch with them in a few days."

"Where are they _exactly_, Raksada?"

The Dunmer looked embarrassed.

"Well, it seems they… are coming back to the south again."

There was a silence.

"It doesn't make sense…" Sha'ka finally commented thoughtfully. "They should be trying to put as much distance as possible between us and them."

"Maybe they are trying to seek refuge in that small village in the Tenmar forest which still resist to the invader and which seems to cause our dear Raksada no end of trouble…" Naandi whispered in her husband's ears, giving the Dark Elf a provocative wink. The latter resisted the urge to strangle her.

"If this village has not been burnt to the ground yet, it is simply because it is not presenting a direct menace to the power of Incosi Sha'ka!" the Dunmer protested, but the king did not look convinced.

"I know many refugees and rebels are trying to go back to the place, Raksada. I don't want to see the set up of another centre of rebellion…"

"The traitors we crushed a few days ago, o Incosi, made a clear example of what will happen to rebels!" Raksada exclaimed, having difficulty to repress the impatient tone of his voice. "Elsweyr, from Dune to Senchal, is submitted to your authority! We have absolutely nothing to fear from a handful of scruffy wretches from the swamps!"

"Maybe, maybe…" Sha'ka murmured, looking attentively at his councillor. "You have an answer to everything, haven't you Raksada…?"

The lips of the Dunmer turned into one of his typical thin smile and it was with his eyes riveted on Naandi he replied to his king.

"I am only here to serve, o Incosi…"

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"Seriously, how many chances over a million were there for that dimensional gate to open right _here_?" J'Ghasta asked to the company at large. "I still think it is extremely weird!"

As he said so, the Khajiit shot a meaningful glance at Polly the Parrot, who was flying above the little group which was progressing slowly in the green maze of the jungle.

"Excuse me, J'Ghasta, but you call _that_ a chance?" Lucien replied sarcastically. "Landing in the middle of nowhere, in this stupid mix of savannah and rain forests, with nothing to eat or drink, no clothes, no shoes, no money, no…?"

"Well, we are back on Mundus. You should be happy, shouldn't you?"

"I am, but I really would to know_ exactly_ where on Mundus, if no one minds…"

J'Ghasta sighed.

"For the fiftieth time, we are on the Eastern coast of Elsweyr, Lucien. I am sure of that."

"Oh, and how can you be that sure?"

"Khajiit awesome sixth sense." J'Ghasta replied very seriously. Lucien rolled his eyes. "All I need now is to find that darn river so we could follow it down to Senchal."

"Great… But you know it would be nice if you could find your way before we got eaten alive by those blasted mosquitoes…" Lucien grumbled bitterly as he swatted one against the back of his neck. "It has been three days we are walking around, finding nothing _but_ mosquitoes."

"Come on, it's not a couple of mosquito bites which are going to kill you, Lucien…" Graman replied. The Orc had less problems with insects, certainly because his thick skin could protect him from a rain of arrows and his great paws allowed him to squashed not one but entire swarms at once.

"I beg your pardon? A _couple_ of mosquitoes, you said?!"

With an angry move, Lucien torn off the last strips of shirt hanging on his chest, revealing a very pale skin covered, among other things, in insects bites.

"There are _millions_ of them! And those stupid insects are so big they don't sting you but _impale_ you!" he shouted with hint of hysteria in his voice. "Look at this!"

And he pointed dramatically at his chest. Graman and J'Ghasta winced at the sight, and the latter admitted it did not look good at all.

"So, what do you want, Lucien?" the Khajiit asked. "To make another pause again?"

"Not a good idea." Graman commented, looking preoccupied. "The sun is going to set soon, and we need to find a place to spend the night over."

"You two do whatever you feel like. I am sick and tired of that jungle, with its awful smell of rotten things, its insects and its impenetrable vegetation." Lucien replied in a categorical tone. "I am exhausted and I am staying here."

Suiting the action with the words, he leant against a tree and slowly slid against the trunk to the ground with both a weary and annoyed expression on his face.

J'Ghasta turned toward the Orc, raising an eyebrow which meant "So?". Graman shrugged and sat down near Lucien, imitated by Ormil and J'Ghasta while Polly perched on a nearby branch.

While his companions were installing themselves comfortably, J'Ghasta observed Lucien in silence.

Of the member of the little group, the Imperial was the one suffering the most. Indeed, despite J'Ghasta had not put a paw back in Elsweyr in decades, he remained a Khajiit, a creature designed to evolve in those rather inhospitable lands. Graman was an Orc and as such, could basically survive anywhere. As for Ormil – who was currently in deep conversation with a tree – it seemed his insanity had immunized him against tiredness and pain.

But Lucien did not dispose of all those physical and mental protections and he remained deep at heart an urban creature. If hunting the targets of the Dark Brotherhood's contracts in the wild for days had J'Ghasta's favours, Lucien was definitely a _society_ assassin who was only perfectly at ease in the busy background of cities. There was no one better than him in the Brotherhood to discreetly eliminate a target in a busy room while having a mundane conversation on politics. In short, Lucien had turned murdering someone in between eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking a glass of expensive alcohol into an art, but he could not find his bum with his hands when confronted with Mother Nature.

And to think he was worse than a chick regarding his physical appearance… J'Ghasta was happy there were no mirrors around, because the sight his friend was offering was rather… pathetic.

What had survived of Lucien's clothes after the wreck had not resisted the thick and thorny vegetation of Elsweyr's bush, and all that was left of his very fashionable and classy outfit only consisted now in a pant in tatters. His chin was covered by a three-day beard, and, in addition to the mosquito bites, his skin was covered in blood, scratches, mud and his nose was starting to peel because of sunburns. But the worst was probably his long hair. It was so full of knots that, compared to it, dreadlocks actually looked like a very clean and tidy hairstyle.

"There is a bit of grubs left, if someone feels a bit hungry…" Graman said as he opened a little piece of tissue full of difficult to identify stuffs.

"Can only I eat the heads?" Ormil asked with a voice full of hope. "I don't like the wobbly bits. They're yucky!"

"You eat the whole thing or else you won't get anything, Ormil. Do you want some, Lucien?"

"No."

"You should. You really did not look well…"

"I said no."

"But they are full of proteins…!"

"You really don't want me to explain where you can stuff your proteins, Graman…"

"All right, all right, no need to get impolite!"

No one said a word in the five following minutes, and nothing could be heard apart from Ormil who was happily chomping his grubs.

"Would you mind shutting your mouth when you are eating?" Lucien barked to the High Elf.

"Mommch?"

"Hey, has someone seen Polly?" Graman asked straight out. "She is not on her branch anymore…"

J'Ghasta yawned, stretched and laid back on the ground, his arms crossed behind his head.

"Bah, don't worry, she must be flying around. She is in her element here in the jungle…"

"Polly wants a crackeeer!"

"Talking of the Daedra…"

"Crrrrrrrr! Polly wants a crakeeeeeeeeeeeer!"

Graman looked around, frowning.

"But where is she…?!"

"I have no clue." Lucien replied, scanning the surroundings as well. "And she seems much excited…"

The little group became quiet again, listening to Polly's crazy "crakeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!" screams which were getting gradually even more hysterical.

"Last time she was like that, it was when she had found the interdimensional gate…" J'Ghasta said in a soft voice.

There was another pause.

"Do you think she found another one?" Lucien asked in disbelief.

Graman giggled.

"Fifty bucks she found the river!"

J'Ghasta raised an eyebrow.

"I'll take you up on it!"

He got up and walked in the direction from which the cries of the parrot were coming from. The rest of the group could hear him swearing as he progressed through the dense vegetation. Then the noise faded and it seemed an eternity before J'Ghasta came back with the parrot. He had a ten-foot long face which made Graman burst out laughing.

"Don't tell me… She found it!"

"Yeah." the Khajiit replied darkly.

The Orc stopped laughing immediately and Lucien's eyes narrowed. There was something in the Khajiit's voice...

"You are not making such a sinister face because you lost your bet, aren't you...?" Lucien asked, forgetting a moment his personal minor hesitations as his assassin senses came on alert immediately.

"No."

Around them, the jungle was suddenly very silent. Even Polly remained unusually quiet and it seemed to Lucien the smell of humidity and of rotten vegetations had suddenly become more oppressive.

"So, what is the problem?" the Imperial asked again, trying to stay patient and calm despite the feeling of alarm rising in his chest. "It is not the good river?"

"Oh, it _is_ the good river. But last time I saw it, there were not as many corpses floating in it..."

7777777777777777777

Sigrid was sat under the piece of cloth she had tired up between two bushes and that she used as a makeshift tent. A soft breeze was ruffling the tall grass of the Elsweyrian plains and the cries of the nocturnal predators on the hunt were rising in the air. But the Breton was impervious to beauty of the landscape around her. Hands jointed in front of her as if praying, her eyes were closed and she seemed very concentrated.

It had been three days since she had left Leyawin, and the goodbye with her fellow travellers of the _Black Pea_ had not been exactly… heartbreaking. All of them – apart from the Thelas – had seemed more than relieved to see her go. But before she had left, Captain Maubrey had taken her aside to have a few words with her.

"_I may just be a seaman to you, __Miss Doe, but I am not completely stupid."_ he had told her suddenly. _"If you are just a lady travelling to find a remedy for your dying father, I am Chancellor Ocato."_

"_Oh, are you?"_

Sigrid's had tried to hide her nervousness behind sarcasm, but despite her efforts she could not ignore the heavy weight of worry on her chest.

"_I don't know what you're loo__king for_." the Captain had carried on. _"But you should seriously be a bit more prudent. Elsweyr has never been a safe place and it is even worst at the moment..."_

"_Why do you care?"_ she had replied, staring persistently at Maubrey. _"I had the feeling you did not really have much affection for me…"_

"_I don't know. I just felt it was my duty to warn you__..."_

Sigrid had shrugged, a bitter expression on her face.

"_It doesn't __really matter anymore now. I have lost everything I had during the storms, and without my books, there is nothing I can do."_

There had been a pause during which both had looked at the sailors who were unloading the Black Pea. Endras the Bosmer bard had been making a fuss because the wood of his precious harp had been scratched during the transport, and Sigrid had had to resist the urge to pulverise him on the spot.

"_Well, if you need advice, there a place where you could try to go…"_ Maubrey had ventured finally and Sigrid had looked at him with hopeful eyes. _"Have you heard of the Oracle of Corinth? Well, it is not a 'big' oracle, more like a local one but who knows? It may be able to help you…"_

Sigrid's hopeful look immediately vanished and she had had to make great effort not to burst out laughing.

"_The Oracle of Corinth?__ The one which announced that the Imperial City would be destroyed by the Daedras in a vengeful rain of custard pies _(**2**)_?"_

"_The Imperial City had been destroyed by Merhunes Dagon…"_ the Captain had replied in a soft voice, ignoring Sigrid's annoyed roll of the eyes. _"And the Oracle may not be good at great predictions, but the Khajiits have always trust it to give them advice about every-day life." _

Sigrid still had difficulty to understand why she decided to follow Maubrey's advice. Well, the answer should probably be found in the fact that she could not come back to Cyrodiil now. And by the way, would she be ever able to? Nothing was awaiting her there, apart from the Dark Brotherhood - and a furious Lucien Lachance... But if her plan of bringing back Martin to life succeeded, things would be far more different...

Oh, what a pleasure it would be to see Lachance's expression when he would find himself facing once more the one he had disdainfully nicknamed "Prince Charming"! Yes… Martin would become Emperor, she would be his Empress, and no one would ever be able to manipulate her or to dare to tell her what she has to do, especially not this arrogant and detestable jerk of Lucien Lachance of Dark Brotherhood... Bwahahahaha…!

But for the moment, such happy end seemed to be very far away, and Sigrid had been very annoyed to learn the frontiers with Elsweyr were closed. Despite her attempts at bribing the Legionnaires at the customs post, they had refused to let her pass, arguing that all diplomatic relations with Elsweyr were broken since some kind of war lord had ruthlessly destroyed several Imperial garrisons. And as it never rained but it poured, she had not been able to find a proper guide who accepted to show her the way to Corinth – apparently, the roads were not safe enough for anyone to risk their neck, even for a substantial amount of Septims.

As a result, Sigrid had found herself forced to resort to the "services" of a bunch of smugglers more interested in her cleavage and in the content of her purse than into taking her in one piece to Corinth…

And this is how she ended up in the middle of the savannah of Elsweyr, with a group of travelling companions who looked as confused as she did, once more engrossed in the memories contained in the datadice, letting her brains getting invaded with those alien thoughts.

The datadice had become some kind of drug. Every time Sigrid was feeling ill, tired, despaired or simply bored, she was seeking refuge in recollections which were not hers but which allowed her to forget about her own problems. And apparently, she was not the only one to be in trouble...

This time, her host was a pedestrian. An angry pedestrian, by the look and the sound of it… He was walking with his fists in his pocket, jostling passers-by without a word of excuse and forcing his way through the busy alleys of what looked like a market.

"J'Ghasta, do this!', 'J'Ghasta, do that'…" mumbled in Sigrid's ears the very familiar voice of J'Ghasta. The Khajiit was kicking angrily from time to time in a stone which stood on his way, shooting angry looks to the content of the markets stalls which were flashing by his eyes. "'J'Ghasta, why don't you go buying me some special wax for the wood of my harp why we sort out important stuffs…?' This 'servant' thing is just a disguise… I'm not her maid, damnit! And where the Oblivion am I supposed to find that fucking wax? It's a country market, for Sith… the Gods' sake! Not the Imperial City!"

While the Khajiit was continuing his progression, Sigrid's mind got partly invaded by her host's angry thoughts. From what she could gather, the little group of assassins has finally reached the town of Howldeath. Rivanone and Vicente had left to present their respects to their hosts, a ceremony from which J'Ghasta, as a servant, was not invited – to his greatest displeasure.

As a result, the Kahjiit had expressed his disappointment about missing a reception with plenty to eat and drink in very colourful terms, which earned him a good kick in the ass by Master Rivanone and a stupid "mission" which consisted to find an article which probably did not exist in a hole like Howldeath.

Well, J'Ghasta admitted he was a bit unfair concerning the town. Howldeath was not as dead as he imagined first, and actually, the place was currently rather animated. Undoubtedly, the presence of an eminent group of powerful persons tended to attract curious people wanting to tell their grand-children "I-was-there", and, of course, given those people needed to eat, sleep and be entertained, all the merchants and public entertainers of the regions had rolled up on the double, seduced by the possibility to make a lot of money in a short period of time. This probably explained why Howldeath now looked like a gigantic kermis in which J'Ghasta was pacing up and down like a caged Khajiit.

After having searched all over the market three times for the wax, J'Ghasta decided he had enough, that Master Rivanone could go to Oblivion with her stupid harp and that he would spend the rest of the day in a quiet place where he could sulk to his heart's content.

Obviously, such a spot was not easy to find in a busy market, and J'Ghasta was about to leave the place when something – or someone – started pulling his tail…

Hissing in annoyance, the Khajiit turned around to see who was thick enough to risk his or her life by doing such a stupid thing…

It was a boy. A very young boy, who, in Sigrid's opinion, was no more than seven year-old and was wearing clothes which had seen better days but nevertheless were of good fabric. He was carrying a bag full of fresh fruits, meat, and - oddly enough - books.

"What do you want, squirt?" J'Ghasta asked the child in a very unpleasant manner, baring his teeth at him hoping to see him to decamp quickly.

But the kid did not chicken out and continued to glare at the Khajiit with his big hazel-gold eyes.

"Are you a lion?" he finally asked.

The inappropriateness of the question completely took J'Ghasta aback.

"A… a _what_?" he stammered.

The child had an impatient sigh.

"A li-on." he articulated loudly as if J'Ghasta was both deaf and stupid. He then started ruffling in his bag before retrieving a book he opened and gave to the Khajiit. "Like this one."

Slowly recovering from his surprise, J'Ghasta took the book the little boy was handing him and look at it. It was one of those books for children, always stuffed with very colourful and cute illustrations. This particular one was apparently about teaching kids their alphabet by using an animal as a reference for each letter, like "B" for "Bear", "D" for "Deer" - and, of course, "L" for "Lion".

"Because you really look like a lion, you know." the boy continued. "With the mane, the tail and the other stuffs…"

Deciding not to question the kid furthermore about what he meant by "the other stuffs", J'Ghasta eyed critically at the illustration, which, to his greatest displeasure was indeed sharing some common points with his own appearance…

"For your information, smart ass," J'Ghasta answered stiffly, shutting the book a bit more violently than necessary and throwing it back in the child's arms, "I am a _Khajiit_, and I have nothing to do with… _lions_'!" He then made a pause and frowned. The boy was looking at him warily. "Well, this is not entirely accurate… Let's say Khajiit are seventy per cent human and thirty per cent big cat – or 'lion'. Happy?"

"Oh." The kid sounded a bit disappointed. "So, you don't eat people then."

J'Ghasta rolled his eyes, his usually sharp tongue nailed to his palate due to so much ingeniousness.

"You see, Big Tommy told me you were a domesticated lion which _did_ eat people." the boy explained in a very serious and concerned tone. "And that I had to ask you or else I was a coward. And Big Tommy says he doesn't like coward and beat them up. But I am not a coward and don't like to be beaten up anyway… Still, you said you were partly lion, so, I guess Big Tommy was not entirely wrong about you being a kind of domestic one eating people…" He stopped and looked at J'Ghasta with a mix of horror and fascination in the eyes. "Are you going to eat me?"

J'Ghasta did not reply immediately as he was glaring at the kid with his mouth open. The child's self-assurance as well as his way to talk nineteen to the dozens and his trend to jump from a subject to another ready had completely annihilated the Khajiit's wittiness and ability to reply something like "yes, I am going to eat you, if it is only the way to make you shut your mouth".

"No, I'm not going to eat you…" he sighed, his shoulders lowering in a weary move instead.

Once again, disappointment painted on the boy's face, but he nevertheless continued to glare at J'Ghasta in silence as if he could not resolve himself to leave.

"Are you going to stay all day here looking at me? Am I really the first Khajiit you have ever seen?"

The child nodded, and J'Ghasta frowned. Now he noticed how the people passing by them were glaring curiously at him, as if they had never seen someone like him before. For J'Ghasta, who, as an assassin, used to evolve in a very cosmopolitan environment, this was a rather original situation...

"There are absolutely no folks like you here." the boy explained. "The people here are mainly Imperials and Argonians. And there are also a few of those _filthy Ashborns_…"

The loath put by the kid in the two last words surprised and almost shocked J'Ghasta.

"_Master Rivanone was right…"_ he thought as the boy continued to rant and rave about the Dark Elves. _"Hatred between the Imperials and the Dunmer is quite deep-rooted here. If even the children are hardened xenophobic, now we're going to see some fun during the negotiations…" _

"Yeah, yeah, right, OK, I got it!" J'Ghasta said aloud once he esteemed to know enough about the presumed Dunmer' inerrant treacherous nature and pathological lack of hygiene. "Tell me… You know the village quite well, don't you?"

"I was born here!" the boy said proudly.

"Cool. So do you know where I could find some wax? It is for my master's harp… She is a bard you see, and she… - why are you looking at me like that _again_?!"

"Your master is Lady Rivanone? Trencavel the Bard? _You are with Trencavel the Bard_?!"

"No, Trencavel the Plum Pudding." J'Ghasta replied sarcastically. "Of course, the bard! Who else?!"

"You are her _apprentice_?"

The boy's jaw dropped.

"Yeah. No… I mean… Yeah, I am J'Ghasta, Lady Rivanone's _personal_ servant, you see." the Khajiit replied, deeply annoyed by the kid's stunned expression. "And what's the problem? Don't I look good enough to you to be her apprentice?"

The boy opened his mouth to reply but this the moment someone chose to blow in an Oliphant to indicate Lord Saevus, the ruler of the town, was holding a reception in Howldeath Castle.

"Huh-ho, I have to go or I will be in trouble... Cheers, Mister J'Ghasta Khajiit!"

And he turned quickly on his heels, leaving J'Ghasta completely flabbergasted.

"Hey! My name is J'Ghasta, not 'J'Ghasta Khajiit'!" the latter shouted in his back after having recovered from his surprise. "And you did not give me _your_ name!"

The boy stopped and turned around.

"I'm Lucien Lachance! See you!" he replied with a big smile on his face before disappearing in the forest of legs of the numerous strollers.

As soon as the boy departed from J'Ghasta's sight, Sigrid's view started to blur and she found herself sitting on the Elsweyrian ground again. She blinked several times as her numb senses slowly came back to normal.

"_J'Gh__asta and Lucien's first meeting!"_ Clairvoix burst out laughing. _"Gosh, this is a collector…!"_

Sigrid did not reply and just stayed there, looking at nothing, a weird look on her face.

"_We absolutely must continue to explore this __datadice_._"_ the sword carried on. _"If there are more embarrassing souvenirs like that in it, we could definitely blackmail Lucien and J'Ghasta when we will be back and… Sigrid? Are you all right? You look strange…"_

The girl shook her head as if she was trying to get rid of some kind of annoying thoughts.

"Yes, yes, I'm all right… It's just…" She stopped and glared at the little dice in the palm of her hand. "Why do you think Vicente kept the datadice all those years?"

The question took Clairvoix aback.

"_Well… Maybe he was nostalgic and he wanted to keep a few, 'living memories' of the good days with Rivanone…"_

"Hmmm… Maybe..."

Sigrid did not seem very convinced, but her mind was already focused on another problem. It was hard to admit, but the memory of Lucien's bright smile to J'Ghasta had somewhat shocked her.

She passed her hands over her face and sighed. The image of the young naive boy the assassin seemed to be as a kid was clashing hard with the one of the sarcastic and cruel bastard Sigrid had learnt to know.

"_He was a cute__ and nice little boy when he was young... So what?"_ she thought with bitter irony. _"What did you imagine, you little idiot? All little boys are cute and nice first. That's what little boys are for...! But your experience proves that cute and nice little boys grow up and become ruthless assassins..."_

But the worst thing was not to imagine Lucien could have been something more human and likable than what he had become... No, the worst was how easily such an idea had suddenly woken up feelings she had buried deeply after she decided Martin was the man she loved with... Feelings which she thought were definitely dead after what Lucien did to her...

Sigrid chased the thoughts by shaking her head again. She was feeling exasperated toward the kind of compassion she was feeling for herself. She had no time for that, as there were other matters which required her immediate attention. Like that strange impression of being observed constantly. And maybe it was not an impression…

"_You're becoming a bit paranoid, aren't you?"_ Clairvoix asked again, having read her mind once more.

"No, I am not." Sigrid replied firmly. "There is something wrong, I know it."

The girl let her glance ran along the tents. Despite the late hour, the camp was still animated. Some of the travellers had set up fires and were chatting around them - definitely not a wise ting to do when you were trying to stay unnoticed. Sigrid would have expected the smugglers to react at this lack of discretion, but it did not seem to bother them much. To the contrary, they had set up their own little camp a little apart from the travellers' and were currently laughing loudly.

"Don't you think it is a bit strange there is no one to guard our camp?" Sigrid whispered, chewing the nail of her thumb.

"_To guard it __against what?"_

"Well, I don't know. From some king of… guards? Official ones, I mean. After all, we are not supposed to be here, so should not there be some kind of lookout posts or something…?"

"_Isn't a good lookout post supposed to be unnoticed? Then it is normal we can't see them…" _

Sigrid had an annoyed sigh.

"Clairvoix, can't you feel there is something _weird _here?"

"_Actually, I can."_ the sword admitted reluctantly. _"But it has more to do with magic than the lack of guards… Do you remember all those dimensional gates we saw during the storm?"_

Sigrid had an awful grin.

"Hard to forget them…"

"_As I said, they were a manifestation of an already existing magic field, the hex you launched on Captain Jack Barrow only triggering their physical materialisation..."_

"You already tell me that." Sigrid interrupted impatiently. "But you did not mention what king of magic you were talking about."

The silence observed by Clairvoix confirmed the girl's worst fear.

"Daedric magic… Oh no, don't tell me we are doing to deal with a Daedra Prince on the loose _again_...!" she whined, taking her head in her hands and shaking it in disbelief.

"_Well, you can have Daedric magic without having a Daedra invading Mundus, you know. " _Clairvoix observed. _"And there is not only I can feel something else…_" The sword made a pause to prolong the suspense, but the annoyed look he got from Sigrid finally convinced him to go straight to the point._ "Something far less sophisticated but as powerful..."_

At the words, Sigrid's heartbeat accelerated a bit.

"Foodoo?" she asked in a whisper.

"_Maybe, maybe not…"_ the sword replied cautiously. _"I am not very familiar with this kind of magic, but it is close to the description Scribonius gave us."_

"Why didn't you tell me that before?!" Sigrid exclaimed, sounding both irritated and hurt. "I thought you were supposed to help me, not to hide things from me!"

Clairvoix did not reply immediately, trying to sort out whether or not it should tell Sigrid the truth...

When Clairvoix was still Aymard Clairvaux' soul and living as a parasite on Sigrid's, it had learned to know the girl very well. There were no aspects of her personality she could hide from it. It knew her most secret desires and fears – and, to its greatest shame now it thought of it, it had used and abused of its influence over the girl to manipulate her, its own survival being at stake. But now...

Despite the fact Clairvoix remained somewhat connected to Sigrid's mind, the two were not as intimate as they used to be. Now, entire section of the girl' soul remained hermetically closed to it, and if initially Clairvoix had thought it was a normal consequence of their physical separation, it had realised not long ago it could not access some of the girl's thoughts anymore _simply_ _because she was preventing it to_.

First, Clairvoix had not mind – after all, it was normal for her to have her little secrets. But what was starting to worry it was the nature of those secrets…

When Sigrid attacked Barrow and turned him into a toad, Clairvoix had felt something in the girl's soul. Something it had never seen there before, something dark and particularly unpleasant but remained perfectly abstruse to Clairvoix… And it was because of that "something" the sword chose to lie.

"_I did not say anything because I was not – and still am – not entirely sure of what we are currently facing. And to be honest, if it is actually Foodoo, I find that quite worrying..."_

"Worrying? But it would be wonderful! It would mean Foodoo is not a legend and that there are still people able to practise it!"

"_Oh yes__, wonderful, indeed!"_ the sword replied, starting to glow purple to express sarcasm. "_And doesn't your incredibly developed paranoid side find it weird? Here is a kind of magic people have not heard of in centuries, and pof! Just when we are looking for it, here it comes!"_

"Coincidence?" the girl ventured.

"_Maybe__, but I would not bet on it... Sadly, I have noticed that coincidences turned to be not that coincidental when you were around..."_ Clairvoix replied softly. _"One thing is sure though: there are things with great magic powers at work here, and whatever they are, I hope they will be kindly oriented toward us, because we won't have the power to face it if it is not the case."_

There was a long pause during which Sigrid assimilated the information, while in the air was resounding the song of the locusts.

"Ah, and those stupid locusts!" Sigrid suddenly shouted. "They get on my nerves with their 'crrr! crrr! cr…!"

The girl had not finished her sentence something long, sticky and violet flashed passed her head several times, and each time, the intensity of the locusts' song decreased. The girl turned around to face the toad which was chewing happily something. Several pairs of legs were getting out of his mouth, twitching helplessly. Sigrid winced.

"Er… Thank you, Toad."

"Burp!" the latter replied. He then gulped the still-convulsing content of his mouth, yawned and fell asleep again.

"_You should imitate Toad, Sigrid."_ Clairvoix said. _"You need to recover, and brooding over your problems won't help much. With a good night sleep, everything will look better, believe me."_

Sigrid admitted the sword was right and tried to install herself as best as she could on the rocky ground, wrapped up in her travelling cloak. She was about to fell asleep, rocked by the soft snoring of Toad, when another regular sound, like someone walking in the tall grass, captured her attention.

"Clairvoix…" she started in a low voice as her eyes opened brusquely.

"_I heard. There is something on the left…"_

Sigrid moved her head slowly in that direction, trying to discern the source of the noise in the dark. She spotted it. It was standing in the tall grass, a few feet from her tent. It had stopped moving and was apparently making no effort to hide.

With an impressive leap for a pregnant woman toward the shadow, she took Clairvoix out of its scabbard and… found herself facing an elderly and happily grinning Khajiit. Sigrid sighed in relief as she recognised him.

He was one of the voyagers, a Khajiit so old he looked like as if he was about to crumble into dust. He had joined the group of travellers along with a very young female Khajiit and a baby. Sigrid remembered them well because the old man had this strange habit of keeping looking around for bits of wood to use as staff. Earlier today, he had shown interest in Sigrid and had tried to approach the girl, but his attempts had been systematically thwarted by the young female, who had finally resolved herself to drag him away – not without shooting Sigrid a very dark glance.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sigrid asked him angrily as she put Clairvoix back into its sheath. "You are trying to get killed or what?"

"Asante sana, squashed banana!" the old Khajiit replied, singing and beating the ground with his staff. "Wewe nugu mimi apana!"

Sigrid blinked.

"Okaaaaay… Do you have any idea of what it means?" she whispered to Clairvoix from the corner of her mouth.

"_Er,__ well… I think it has something to with bananas which had been mashed, er…"_

"No, kidding? I was asking about the rest!"

"_Seriously, I have no clue… Hey, what does he do now?" _

The Khajiit had started dancing around Sigrid, waving his arms and his staff in the air while jumping from one foot to another muttering his little song. The travellers sat around the fires had stopped their discussion and were now looking at them with great interest.

"Completely nuts…" Sigrid murmured as the Khajiit continued to fool around. "All right, granddad." she added in a much louder voice, grabbing him by the arm. "Where is the rest of your family? You know, the young girl who is travelling with you - your daughter, granddaughter, wife or whatever…!"

The old cat grinned at her from what was left of his teeth, but did not reply. Sigrid winced in annoyance and grabbed him by the arm to force him to get up. But the Khajiit remained firmly sat on the ground.

"Come on, get up!" the girl exclaimed as she tried to pull him up again.

This time, the Khajiit moved, but not in the right direction... He brusquely bent forward and wrapped his arms around Sigrid's legs, causing the latter to yell in horror and surprise.

"Aaaaah, you old…! Let me go!" she screamed hysterically, trying to kick the Khajiit away. But the latter giggled and buried his face in her underskirt.

"Hey! What are you doing to him!?" a protesting voice asked.

Sigrid stopped gesticulating and reported her attention from the old Khajiit to the new comer.

It was the young female travelling with the elderly Khajiit. Her eyes were moving from her companion to Sigrid and she looked particularly pissed off.

"Well, er..." the Breton started, trying to smile in a friendly way. "I can explain, er…"

"How dare you to touch him?!"

Sigrid opened and closed her mouth several without being able to formulate a word, so shocked and surprised she was by the Khajiit's aggressiveness.

"Hey! I was just trying to take him back to you, all right?"

"Oh yeah? By kicking him in the head?"

While she spoke, the young female Khajiit had come closer to Sigrid, who could take a better look at her. She looked very young, probably around sixteen, but it was always hard to say with Khajiits. She looked extremely exhausted and tensed, and the deep dark blue circles under her eyes were bringing out her eyes red with tiredness. She was wearing a heavy bag which opened slightly, revealing the fluffy head of a baby.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeh!" he exclaimed, shooting Sigrid a bright smile and stretching his little and plump arms to touch her.

"Ah no, you! It is not the moment!" the female protested as she shut the bag. She then turned toward the old Khajiit, whose arms were still wrapped around Sigrid's legs. "We must go now, ubaba."

She tried nicely to make him let go Sigrid, but he clutched the girl's legs more firmly instead.

"Amkana." he said with a pout, pointing a bony forefinger on the Breton.

"What?" the female asked, blinking.

"What?" Sigrid repeated?

"_What?!"_ Clairvoix echoed aloud, and Sigrid gave a sharp slap on the sword's sheath, but it was too late. The young Khajiit was looking through narrowed eyes at Clairvoix.

"Who said that?"

"Said what?" Sigrid repeated rather stupidly.

"Don't make fun of me…" the young Kahjiit growled. Her older companion had finally let Sigrid's legs go and had installed himself a few feet away from the girls. Given his wide toothless smile, he was enjoying the show a lot.

"I am not making fun of you! And no one else said "what?"!" Sigrid protested in a tone she hoped convincing enough while moving the sword in her back to take it away from the teenager's inquisitive glance. "Well, apart from me, of course…"

"I heard someone other than _you_ speaking. And the voice was coming from your sword!"

"Are you implying I am walking around with a magic talking sword? How ridiculous, ahahah…!"

"_Ahahah…"_ Clairvoix's voice echoed mockingly in her head. _"You are only making matters worst, Sigrid…"_

"Shut up, you!"

Sigrid stopped her mental argument with the sword and clapped her hands on her mouth when she realised she had spoken aloud.

"Did you just tell me to shut up?!" the Kahjiit yelled, baring her teeth at the girl and drawing her claws in a silky sound.

"All right, let's try to calm down a bit, shall we?" Sigrid said, withdrawing slowly and making appeasing moves with her hands.

"_Just our luck!__"_ Clairvoix exclaimed._ "We bumped into a hothead!"_

"_Stop making silly remarks and help me to find a way to calm her down!"_

"_Just beat her__ hard on the head several times! That should do!"_

Sigrid took Clairvoix out of its sheath, ready to fight. The young Khajiit bared her teeth at her, crouching…

And a burning arrow embedded itself in between the two antagonists.

"Er… Do you have something to do with this?" the Khajiit asked, looking at the arrow as if she was hypnotised by it.

"Nope." Sigrid replied, engrossed as well in the contemplation of the arrow.

There was a scream as another fire arrow landed on one tent - quickly followed by many others…

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Thousand of miles away, a black cart pulled by two equally black horses was running at breakneck speed in the direction of the south of Cyrodiil. The wooden doors were engraved with a crest consisting in two crescent moons, one white and one red - a very well-known coat of arms, recognised all around Tamriel even by those who bunked off their heraldic classes…

"I still don't get why you have accepted this mission in Elsweyr, my lord." said Ontus Vanin to the silhouette sat on the seat in front of him. "You told me it was an extremely risky one and that Ocato gave it to us on purpose in order to keep us away from the Council of Elders, which is a bit contrary to our interests, isn't it?"

Janus Hassildor, Count of Skingrad, Pair of the Empire and life member of the Council of Elders - which was quite a thing when you were a vampire - sighed and closed the book he was reading. Master Ontus Vanin was certainly a great mage, a true friend and a very courageous and clever man, but he was as dense as a wall of breezeblock when it came to politics.

"It is simple, Master Vanin." the Count explained patiently for the tenth time. "We accepted this mission as emissaries because it was politically a wise move to make. The Council looks more like a battlefield than an assembly of well-mannered gentlemen at the moment, and given that we don't aspire to an official position within the new organisation of the Empire the Chancellor is setting up – I mean, in addition of those we are already occupying in the Council – I thought it was compulsory for both of us to leave the place for a while as we may have ended up as collateral victims of the machinations weaved by some of our little comrades."

"Ah. Right."

Vanin looked rather disconcerted, and Hassildor sighed again. He was sure his companion was going to ask him the question again in half an hour.

"In addition, I also felt necessary to go away from Skingrad and Cyrodiil for a while," Janus continued nevertheless, "given Father Jôme of the Order of the Nine was getting a bit too… _inquisitive _about my little person, certainly at the request of some of our friends from the Council…"

"Jôme…" Vanin growled. "This old scarecrow, who keeps trying to terrify the honest but credulous people of Cyrodiil by explaining the Oblivion crisis was due to the lack of faith of the Imperials in the Nine Divines …"

"Trying to terrify? He is quite successful, I am afraid… And his impassioned sermons make people following his example. Mortifications and abstinence are more or less becoming a new fashion, and it is amazing the number of gaunt-looking people you can see around these days..."

"Oh, really?" Vanin said with a big grin, patting merrily his huge belly.

Janus covered his mouth with his hand to hide the little smile which was stretching his lips, an habit often developed by vampires to hide the too obvious signs of their true nature.

"You lack of faith, and even, if I may say, ungodliness will certainly soon earn you the Wrath of the Gods, my dear Ontus."

"I am afraid it has already be done, my lord." the old mage replied with a huge grin. "Jôme excommunicated me last week, just after I yelled 'bullshit!' after his homily during the office in the Temple of the Two, do you remember?"

This time, the Count laughed openly.

"You are definitely not the kind of person one would associate with, Master Vanin!"

This time, it was the mage's turn to smile.

"Indeed, my lord. But both of us are outcast – each of us for different reasons – and don't they say 'bird of a feather flock together?'"

Janus Hassildor could only nod his agreement. Him and Vanin were indeed pariahs, the latter because he was a complete iconoclast who tended to enjoy and appreciate rules and social conventions only to sit happily on them, while the Count was nothing less than a vampire – an affliction which forced him to live cloistered in the Castle of Skingrad and to be constantly on his guard to avoid leaks about his real nature.

More than one had been surprised by the friendship between two individuals of such dissimilar characters, the Count being rather… _introverted_ while Vanin could not resist the urge to slap everybody in the back and to pay drinks all around. Even physically, they were both at one end of the spectrum, the mage with his good-tempered chubbiness and Hassildor's with his literally cadaverous thinness.

But if the vampire and the mage sometimes did not share the same philosophy on life, they at least had one thing I common: their hatred of certain forms of human stupidity, fanaticism and intolerance arriving on top of the list.

"Well, at least, and in spite of all his faults," the Count started with a mischievous expression on his face, "Jôme is never late for the church service and doesn't knock down pregnant women…"

"Ah, please, stop making fun of me with that, my lord! I did not do it on purpose!" Vanin exclaimed, sounding really offended.

"You should have seen your face… Very entertaining…" the Count carried on, sounding very amused. "You looked like you had killed someone."

"It was almost as if I did!" Vanin, said, mortified. "I mean, she was pregnant! And the poor kid ran away before I had the time to check if she was really all right. I really wished I had the opportunity to see her again to excuse myself properly."

"Hmm, who knows …? You might have the chance to bump into her again…"

Ontus looked surprised.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

The Count made a dismissive sign with his hand.

"Oh, nothing. Just forget about it."

There was a pause, suddenly broken by a strange sound, like a "whiff!" and almost as simultaneously Ontus Vanin had a very bad fit of coughing. The Count glared at him and the old man turned a bit red in the face.

"May I ask you a rather personal question, Ontus?"

"Er… Of course, my lord!"

"Why do you keep going at Trencavel's altar, putting flowers on it? You barely knew her after all…"

Ontus seemed almost relieved at the statement. Apparently, he was expecting a question of another nature…

"Well, her life is quite a sad story, isn't it?" he replied with a little shrug. "She got betrayed by those she trusted, saved the Empire, but at the cost of her own life and at the one of her love, Martin Septim… You can call me an awful romantic, but I feel like this deserves a little… gratitude."

"I see." Hassildor replied quite neutrally, carefully did not mentioning to Ontus he had personally and discreetly laid around the altar some of the biggest bouquets.

"And the same goes for your friend, Valtieri. He was a courageous man, risking his life to help Trencavel and such…" the mage continued with a sigh. "I pray for him as wall, and would put flowers on his tomb as well – if I knew where it was…"

"I am very touched, Ontus." Hassildor said sincerely. "As for Vicente's tomb, don't worry. There are people to take care of it."

The wheels of the cart suddenly bumped on a stone and there was that strange sound again, like a muffled bark. Vanin started to cough once more, and Janus rolled his eyes.

"Ontus… Why don't you simply free him now? We are far from Skingrad now. It is not as if I could force him to go back…"

"I absolutely don't understand what you mean, my lord, I…" Vanin said, his chubby face radiating innocence.

The cart went though a hole this time, shaking violently the two passengers and the luggage stored in the cabin above their head fall at their feet. The shock forced some of them to open, revealing the content of some of the suitcase...

"Furball, what a surprise!" the Count exclaimed sarcastically when he saw the head of his pet dog emerging from a pile of clothes. "I am glad I said I wanted you to stay at the Castle…"

"Whiff!" Furball barked.

"I… I don't understand, my lord! I have no idea how he got into my suitcase…!"

"Ontus, your left eye twitches when you are lying."

The mage blinked in panic, making Hassildor giggling as he picked up the little and happily-barking dog from the floor.

"You are a pathetic secretive and a bad liar, Master Vanin." the Count carried on, stroking Furball while the latter drooled abundantly on his knees to express his pleasure. "So, what do you have to say for your defence?"

"Well… er…" babbled the mage. "Furball looked so sad when he realised we were leaving without him…I could not stand his poor puppy-dog eyes so I… I stuffed him in my suitcase." he concluded miserably, turning as red as a tomato.

"Tss, tss, my poor Ontus… To think _you_ were the one who did not want him to come with us first, saying it was a far too long and exhausting trip for such a little dog, and so on and so forth…Ah well, isn't reverse psychology a wonderful thing, my dear Ontus?"

Ontus Vanin frowned so hard that wrinkles appeared on his usually smooth forehead.

"Hang on a minute, my lord… Are you insinuating you told me you finally did not want to take Furball along so I would disobey you and hide him in my luggage!?"

The Count beamed at the mage.

"You see, you are starting to get good at politics!"

(**1**) His detractors – who mainly reproached him his hold on the affairs of State of Elsweyr – actually made a song about him which soon became a smash hit.

Sadly, Raksada had a very limited sense of humour and self-derision. Thus, he made sure his enemies as well as the music-loving people quickly found themselves pushing out the daisies so everyone understood it was at their own risk they hummed chorus like:

"Ra Ra Raksada

Power behind King Sha'ka

Here is a cat that really is gone

Ra Ra Raksada

Who checks the King's agenda

It is a shame how he carries on."

(**2**) It was originally an idea from Sheogorath, the Mad God, but he was piped at the post by Merhunes Dagon and his gang of frustrated, embittered and dressed-in-burgundy-bathrobes degenerates who called themselves "Mythic Dawn" because it sounded so "cooooool" and fashionable.

Mankar Camoran, certainly one of the most brilliant mind which ever existed on Nirn, is still wondering what he smoked the day he decided to choose such a bunch of morons as minions.


	8. Domestic Politics and Foreign Policy

Chapter 7 –

**Chapter 7 – ****Domestic Politics and Foreign Policy**

**Many thanks ****to my awesome "potential" (:D) Beta-readers Trooper987 (crossing my fingers for your exams dude!) and Dreamysherry, and to my active Beta-readers Raven Studio (you damn kick ass, as Gogron would say! :D) and the Vampire Apple. (giga hugs to the lot) **

**And go read their respective fics if you haven't done it yet, you bunch of monsters! :P **

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The ruins of Fort Farragut had loomed over Cheydinhal for centuries, but in spite of this one would have great difficulty finding someone in the city able to give a good description of what lay inside…not even the local boys on a dare, ventured towards the brooding wreck.

Strangely enough, it seemed that Fort Farragut had been erased from the collective memory of the inhabitants of Cheydinhal. They would hardly even acknowledge its existence, and if they ever did it was exclusively to mention the strange disappearances of all the nosey individuals who showed too much interest in the subject.

This reputation did not concern the silhouette bustling in the Fort's inner courtyard, by the light of the torches flickering and smoking all over the place.

"Now, this is what I call 'clean'…!" Arius exclaimed happily as he proudly considered his work. "What do you think, Shadowmere?" he asked, turning to the horse.

An unenthusiastic neigh answered him. The assassin frowned and turned around. The mare was standing a few feet behind him, looking absolutely mournful, as if she was already en route the slaughterhouse.

"Come on, don't you think cleaning is fun?"

Shadowmere considered Arius' radiantly joyous expression with depressed annoyance. Then she gave the equine equivalent of a shrug before resolutely presenting the Silencer with her hindquarters.

"Hmmm, I take this as a '_no_'," Arius sighed as he dropped to the ground the brush and the bucket with which he had painstakingly cleaned the whole of Fort Farragut's stonework, inside and out.

Despite everything the Silencer had undertaken, Shadowmere staunchly refused to be cheered up. Regardless of his attempts to entertain – or placate – the mare, nothing dented her palpable displeasure. Arius' best efforts simply went unappreciated, and unaccepted.

First, he had suggested taking her to trample mudcrabs on the shores of Lake Rumare. Or, go into the local wilds chasing rabbits(**1**). Or, finally and best, to attack innocent travellers who passed too close to the ruins – in short, all the things she liked to do with Lucien. Except that, this time, her beloved master was not there, and this was certainly where the problem lay…

Arius was starting to seriously worry. He checked her manger regularly, but she had not touched her oats, enriched with rat proteins, today nor yesterday. But there was worse…

While brushing her, that very morning, the assassin had noticed small hairless patches on her underbelly…

"I know you miss Lucien, Shadowmere. But he will be back soon, you know, and I am sure he will be quite displeased to see you in such a sad state," Arius wheedled, patting her affectionately. "In the meantime, don't you want to give me a hand with the Dark Guardians? I need you to corner them while I will try to brush the dust from their armour…"

"I don't think Speaker Lachance would be pleased with that, Arius…" someone said. "For some reason, I believe, he considers dusty Dark Guardians as an inherent part of his 'creepy-and-evil-assassin' image – as well as the ruined old fort, if you see what I mean…"

The assassin stiffened at the sound of the voice. _Ocheeva's_ voice he corrected himself mentally… Arius swore under his breath. He had not heard her coming… By Sithis, he was the one supposed to sneak behind people like that…! What if people started to steal his well-honed tactics?

Trying to relax, Arius slowly turned in the direction of the voice while determining the right attitude to adopt toward the Mistress of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. He had done nothing wrong and had every right to be here, but there was something in Ocheeva's voice which made him feel like a kid caught with his fingers in the jam jar.

"Oh, er… hello, Ocheeva! What a pleasure, ahahah…!" His friendly laugh died in his throat.

Ocheeva was standing a few feet from him, her arms crossed over her chest. She had exchanged her Shrouded Armour for a more casual outfit consisting in a lovely white and green dress that enhanced the golden glints of her scales and eyes. Sadly, her new attractive look was somewhat spoiled by the annoyance on her face. And the look she was shooting Arius was so cold he could have gone ice-skating on it.

"What are you doing here, Arius? You were supposed to have a look round your next contract's place and come back immediately afterwards…"

The assassin sighed inwardly with relief. If that was the only reason she was angry at him, there was nothing to fear…or was there…?

"Well, this is what I did, O Ocheeva." the Imperial tried to justify himself, carefully not mentioning that his mission only took him two hours that morning. "But when I came back, I decided to drop by to Fort Farragut to see how Shadowmere was…" Arius reached up and tried to pet Shadowmere, but the horse whickered warningly at him and stomped a foot, aggrievedly. It was obvious that Shadowmere would willingly exchange Arius' company for the usual must and dust of the fort.

At these words, the Argonian examined the mare carefully and Arius turned brilliantly crimson when he saw Ocheeva's eyes widen in surprise.

"You… You _plaited_ her mere?" she asked in disbelief.

Arius gulped. "Er… Yes?"

"_Shadowmere's…?_ And you still have all your fingers on?!"

Arius could not help but check his hands quickly. "I think I will still be able to count to ten," he replied, expecting his attempt at humour to force a smile out of the Argonian.

But Ocheeva's face remained completely closed. "Glad to see you have managed to tame this monster. Only Lucien can approach her without being kicked to death. Congratulations, really."

Arius was about to respond but finally decided to keep his mouth shut, being unable to determine if he should take Ocheeva's last remark as a compliment or as a reproach. The Mistress of the Sanctuary remained a complete mystery to Arius, and this unsettled him greatly...

Arius had always felt at ease anywhere he decided to stay, thanks to his ability to decipher and understand people's character. Even his Speaker's, Lucien Lachance, whom Arius considered the epitome of cold, creepy and secretive, had revealed an almost pleasant aspect of his personality in J'Ghasta's company.

Ocheeva was another story…

Oh, she was always extremely polite with him, although at the same time, she remained so distant, so cold, so "in-control", even with the members of the Sanctuary she had known for years… But this would have not shocked Arius if he had not had sneaking suspicion that her cordial demeanour turned into glacial over-politeness when she had to deal with him. After all, wasn't he the only assassin in Cheydinhal she called by his surname and not by his first name…?

"Ah, anyway, I have not come here to dissert on your abilities to get on with magic psychopathic horses," the Argonian carried on, dragging Arius from his ruminations on her personality and peculiarities. "I have news…"

The Silencer remained quiet but his eyes narrowed a bit. News…Given the Argonian's tone, it was certainly not good…

"Arquen is organising a meeting," she continued slowly, glaring at Arius to see his reaction. "A… Synod, to be more precise."

Knowing he was carefully assessed, Arius did his best to keep his composure neutral, even if he was inwardly absolutely flabbergasted.

By Sithis, now wonder why Ocheeva was so edgy! A Synod… The supreme Unholy Congregation of the Dark Brotherhood…

A shiver of both excitement and fear ran along Arius' spine while a series of pictures formed in his head: dozens and dozens of hooded silhouettes gathered in an immense cave. Torchlight dancing on frescos painted there at the dawn of time while, on a platform in the centre of the room, a red flame burned, symbolising the presence of the Dread Father…

Of course, such a meeting had not taken place in at least century, and the Silencer's fertile imagination was fed on and strongly influenced by the stories he had heard and read on the subject. The Brotherhood had always been extremely wary of organised meetings which included all its members for obvious reasons. Indeed, if they were discovered, the repercussions would be terrible…

In addition, it demanded quite a lot of time to organise – you could not contact all the assassins in all corners of the Empire by just snapping your fingers – and this made Arius think Arquen had been planning her dirty trick for quite a while. Probably even before J'Ghasta appointed her interim Listener…

"A rather interesting piece of news, if I may say." Arius finally replied in a neutral and soft voice. "Do the others know already about it…?"

"The others? If you mean the other Sanctuary Masters, yes, they know…But if you are talking about our comrades in Cheydinhal, they don't. I will tell them in time. I…wanted to discuss the matter with you first. I know it is rather unexpected but…"

"I have to admit I am indeed surprised, Ocheeva," Arius interrupted her. "Why did you choose to talk to me first? Why not asking M'raaj-Dar, Teinaava, Gogron or even Antoinetta? You know them better than me."

"_An__d you certainly trust them more…"_ he added to himself and was surprised by the bitterness of the thought. Arius knew his own merits and abilities, so other people's opinions had never mattered to him before. But before _what_ exactly…?

"I indeed know them better than you, and it is exactly why I did not talk to them, Arius." Ocheeva replied with a heavy sigh. "M'raaj-Dar would end up hurling abuse at Arquen, Teinaava would talk about finding a way to stab her in the back, Antoinetta would not understand anything while Gogron would be... well… g_ogronesque_. This is not what I am looking for at the moment… I need someone able to offer me support, someone who can a cool head." She paused, during which she carefully studied the palms of her hands before turning her attention back on Arius again. "And you are that person, Arius. Your encyclopaedic knowledge of the history of the Brotherhood is legendary. Lucien trusts you, which, in my opinion, is worth all credentials in the worl…why are you laughing?" she demanded, offended, as the Silencer chuckled uncontrollably.

"Ocheeva…" Arius managed to articulate in between hiccups. "Do you realise you are actually paying me _compliments_?"

The Mistress of the Sanctuary looked at the Silencer with an expression of complete non-comprehension on her face. "I beg your pardon, Arius…?"

The Imperial finally managed to calm down, and considered the Argonian carefully. Was she truly surprised or did she pretend not to understand in order to...

"Would you mind letting me know what's wrong with you?" she continued in a very dry tone. Her nostrils flared, a clear sign she was rapidly becoming irritated. The last time Arius saw her do that...ugh. He shuddered. It just _didn't_ bear thinking about...

"I was about to ask you the same question, O Ocheeva."

"_What?_"

All right, apparently, she was not faking, so Arius decided to speak frankly. After all, there might never be any other occasion to broach the subject.

"Since I arrived in Cheydinhal a few months ago, I've done everything possible to settle in well. And I think I have managed to integrate fairly well with my fellow assassins. They now consider me part of the family..." Arius explained patiently. "Except you…Whatever I do or say or suggest, you are never satisfied. What have I done to irk you, Ocheeva? Why do you despise me so much?" Arius asked quietly, disheartened even.

The Argonian made a little disconcerted noise with her throat. "But…It's not...I don't _despise_ you…!" she protested. "It's just…"

"Yes?" The Silencer expected Ocheeva to yell at him or to otherwise show her temper. Instead, she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders slouched, as if weighted down by a burden almost beyond her strength to bear.

"It is just...I feel so..._lost_." she said in a hoarse whisper. "So lost…"

It was the Imperial's turn to look dumfounded. He was certainly not expecting that kind of reaction, and he was not sure how to react in turn. All this smelled like "confession time". The only ones Arius felt at ease with, or entitled to receive were the confessions of his victims, just before he offered them the ultimate redemption in blood and Sithis' embrace…

"Arquen is right, you know. Everything has seemed to go downhill for _months_…" The Argonian raised her head and her exotic golden eyes looked deeply into Arius', her expression bleak and hopeless. "It started with Bellamont trying to destroy the Brotherhood, it continued with the curse of the Ankou and Merhunes Dagon's invasion, both leading to Telaendril's, Vicente's and Sigrid's deaths." Ocheeva declared in one breath, the words flowing out of her mouth at an impressive speed.

Arius did not try to interrupt her. Apparently, she needed to get those things off her chest.

"And for the rest, well, you are perfectly aware of it." she continued, but a bit more slowly this time. "You had already joined us in the Sanctuary, you know about Lucien and Sigrid's extremely tense relationship. It _tainted_ the atmosphere of the Family up until she ran away. And now, Lucien and J'Ghasta are gone, leaving Arquen free rein over the Brotherhood's future…"

"She hasn't got free rein," Arius cut her off firmly. "The Dark Brotherhood does not consist only of the Speakers and the Listener. Whatever Arquen may think the rest of our Brothers and Sisters will have their say!"

Ocheeva a feeble smile. "If you say so… But she is invoking a_ Synod_, Arius. It is far from being meaningless." The Argonian gave another deep sigh. "You know, it is the first time I've never felt so alone…Before, when Lucien was away, Vicente was there to offer his support and advice on how to manage the Sanctuary. He was a great comfort…I don't know if you had the pleasure to meet him, but he was a great…" Ocheeva did not finish her sentence and Arius felt a wave of panic rise in his throat when he saw her eyes glitter with misty with tears.

Arius had only been serving as Lucien Silencer's - and thus staying in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary - for a bit more than six months. However, even that short period of time had been enough to see how the death of Vicente Valtieri had affected his Sanctuary-mates.

This did not surprise Arius at first. After all, Valtieri was quite a legend in his own way. The vampire had served the Brotherhood for two hundred years, and had occupied all the positions offered, from Murderer to Listener, as well as Master of a Sanctuary and it was obvious his loss had had disastrous effects on the organisation.

But more and more it was most visible not in the infrastructure, but on those whom the vampire had left behind. Valtieri had indubitably marked his companions, and there was not a day that passed without one of them remembering what a great companion he was or, as Gogron simply put it, how "he rocked hard, damnit!".

The Silencer suddenly wished he had the occasion to know Valtieri better. But this was not the time for regrets, and Arius refocused his attention on Ocheeva. Tears were rolling down her cheeks now and that was certainly the most terrifying thing he had seen in a while. The very calm and rational Ocheeva, crying…

By Sithis and the Night Mother together, what was he supposed to do in this sort of situation…? It wasn't something assassin training prepared him for – crying women. Well, not ones he didn't have to kill, in the end.

"It's all right, er…" He hesitated, and then finally started patting the Argonian awkwardly on the shoulder. But the latter gave a start at the contact as if she had been stung, and the Silencer withdrew his hand immediately. "I do apologise Ocheeva, I…"

The Mistress of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary sniffled. She then retrieved a small handkerchief from one of her sleeves and blew her nose loudly. "It is all right Arius…You must think I am a complete imbecile, unworthy to assume the responsibility of leading one of the Dark Brotherhood's Sanctuaries…" Ocheeva commented with a sad smile as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She seemed to have gotten a grip on herself, and her voice was perfectly calm again.

"No, I don't," Arius replied honestly. "I truly admire the work you do in Cheydinhal. Very impressive for such a young person!"

"You mean, 'very impressive despite the fact I'm just a kid'?"

"Nonono! That's not what I meant!" Arius denied, shaking his two forefingers frenetically in front of him in sign of negation. But he stopped, and a very shyly earnest, embarrassed smile crept across his features, when he realised the Argonian was beaming at him. "Oh. You were joking… Very funny. Ahahah…!"

"Yes, I was. Ahahah…!"

Conversation lulled, and silence settled as the two assassins stood and fidgeted. Neither noticed that Shadowmere had wandered off, in search of grass, grazing, and less stress.

"Well, thanks a lot for the vote of confidence, Belisarius," Ocheeva said, getting up and smoothing the fabric of her skirt. "Now, would you mind if we talk about the Synod on our way back to the Sanctuary? I am tired and I would like to go get back home…"

Strangely, Arius felt suddenly jovial. She had called him by _his first_ name as if it was the most natural thing in the world…! "Er, of course, but can I finish to washing the…?" He stopped and had a resigned sigh when he caught the Argonian's eyes. "All right. For the sake of the Brotherhood, the cleaning can wait…"

77777777777777777

"I told you it was weird that there were no guards at all!" Sigrid shouted as she neatly decapitated a Khajiit warrior who was trying to run her though with a spear.

"_All right,__ I was wrong!" _Clairvoix admitted as it pierced thought the chest of another of their attackers. _"But how could have I known the smugglers would betray us - Duck!_"

Sigrid obeyed, avoiding another spear which embedded itself right behind her.

The fighter who had thrown it hissed in rage and jumped at the young woman, his teeth and claws bared, ready to tear her apart. But his victorious roar as he was about to land on her back turned into a scream of horror and pain as he found himself stabbed by hundreds of sharp icicles, coming from the spell Sigrid had just cast at him.

"_Nice one!"_ Clairvoix cheered while the Khajiit on the ground doubled up with pain. _"Now he looks like a whining pincushion!"_

Not bothering to answer, Sigrid immediately came back to guard, checking around her for another opponent, but it seemed she had won a little rest she took advantage of to assess the situation – which was far from brilliant…

It was chaos. Sigrid's travelling companions were either fighting desperately, or screaming helplessly, trying to find a way to escape, an option appearing more and more impossible…

Their assailants were professionals who had carefully coordinated the attack – probably thanks to the information the smugglers had provided. Thus, to make sure no one could escape them, they had divided their group into two smaller units, one unit attacking while the other kept the camp cordoned off. And all those who were fleeing were either captured or killed for resisting capture…

"We have to get out of here!" Sigrid yelled to Clairvoix, over the clash of the battle. The smell of blood and of fear all around her was making her sick.

"_Oh, but after you, my dear!"_ the sword exclaimed sardonically.

Not to waiting for another aggressor to come at her, Sigrid ran in the direction she deemed safest, as it was darker, quieter and had more tree-cover in which to hide.

But Clairvoix was right: getting out of this trap was easier said than done…The sides represented were too unbalanced, and the weight of numbers – and therefore the advantage - was clearly in favour of the soldiers.

Sigrid's stomach knotted distastefully at the thought. Soldiers, yeah…_Mercenaries_, _more like_! Indeed, if she had no doubt about the fact they were professional warriors, she had _serious_ doubts on the legality of the fighters she was confronting…

First, they were not wearing uniforms, strictly speaking, even if their shields were sporting a coat of arms, a coat of arms that even Sigrid Trencavel had never seen before. The coat of arms consisted of a shield with a green background and ornamented with what looked like a contorted mask, like the ones High Elven actors wore during their tragedies on stage.

Second, their forces were a mix of all Tamrielic races, from Imperial to Orc – the trademark of any self-respecting group of mercenaries.

Third, they seemed more interested in pillaging and massacring than in arresting any offenders.

But there was something else about their behaviour that worried her a lot more…

Sigrid stopped behind a tree and observed a gaggle of mercenaries searching methodically through a tent and checking carefully, with the light of many torches, the faces of their victims and prisoners.

"_They'__re looking for something..." _Clairvoix whispered as they watched the mercenaries, now ripping open a mattress to check its contents.

"I know…" Sigrid replied, her heart sinking as the sword confirmed her worst fear. "Something - or someone... Do you think they're after us?" Sigrid asked nervously, instinctively wrapping an arm around herself.

"_No. I can't see __the Dark Brotherhood using _those_ kinds of methods… I don't know who those dudes are looking for, but I don't want to find out. So let's go!"_

Sigrid nodded and resumed her progress away from the mercenaries, doing her best not to draw attention.

Here and there were little groups of travellers still struggling, literally fighting for their lives. Among those resisting was the young female Sigrid had met earlier.

All the Khajiiti Sigrid had met so far, despised traditional weapons, preferring to use, as they said, the ones their goddess Fadomai had given them – claws and teeth. They rarely needed anything more efficient than those... However, what Sigrid could see at the very moment convinced her it was far from being a set-in-stone rule…

Roaring gutturally, the Khajiit was mercilessly mauling and otherwise decimating her attackers with her wickedly sharp claws, but also with an odd, razor-shaped sword with a haft made out of horn. The blade was so sharp it cut through even coats of mail and shields as easily as a warm knife through butter.

"_Maybe we should give her a hand?"_ Clairvoix offered.

"What for? She looks like she's doing just fine," Sigrid retorted, turning her back to the fighters and continuing her escape. "And need I remind you that five minutes ago, it was _us_ she wanted to cut up into tiny little bits?" Sigrid asked, disgruntled, her lip curling slightly.

"_That's no reason to just abandon her to her fate!"_ the sword protested.

"We have more urgent matters to attend, Clairvoix."

"_Come on, Sigrid! You're the Champion of Cyrodiil! Let's go kick some baddies' asses and save the world again_!" Clairvoix wheedled.

The answer Sigrid gave her sword was not the answer it was looking for. "The world could crumble to _dust_, Clairvoix, I wouldn't make a _single move_ to prevent it from happening! The Gods, Destiny or whatever can find themselves another toy!" Sigrid snarled softly, her voice shaking with repressed emotion.

Clairvoix was about to reply: something along the lines of immortal entities certainly not giving a shit about her opinion on the matter, but at that moment a mercenary Orc choose to pop out of a bush behind them.

"Hey, there's another one here!" he yelled, charging Sigrid.

"_Oi! Bunch of bloodthirsty warriors right on our back!"_ Clairvoix warned.

"_Thanks for the warning, Commander Obvious!"_ Sigrid thought as she turned just in time to face the first of her five new assailants.

The Orc raised his axe and tried to split Sigrid's skull, but the battle-hardened bard parried with a grunt and released a shock spell which struck her attacker in the knees, sending him to the ground.

However, Clairvoix had other ideas, and twisting in Sigrid's hand, it gored the next warrior sinking midway through his torso.

"Stop that!" Sigrid protested, wrenching Clairvoix free of the orc and flinching as blood spattered her face, before throwing a fire spell which caught in the hair of the mercenary Imperial woman turning her into a grotesque, bizarre parody of a torch. "How many times I told you _not_ to play the swordsman?" Sigrid snarled angrily, slashing out with Clairvoix at the Imperial, saving her from prolonged torture from hair afire.

"_But it'__s fun__!" _Clairvoix carolled, in something akin to being blood-drunk.

"Yeah, and we'll see if you'll still find it fun when my head lands in the dust because of your stupid little tricks!"

"_Aww, right, I am sor - _Behind you_…!"_

Sigrid gasped, dropping Clairvoix as violent pain exploded in the small of her back. She managed to fall on one side, avoiding landing on her belly, but the shock of hitting the ground bruised her ribs. Groaning, she wrapped her arms across her belly and turned on her back, to see who or what had hit her.

A Dunmer was towering over her, his narrow face split into an evil leer, a chain ending in a heavy metal ball slowly ceasing its whirling motion, guided expertly by his right hand. "Not showing off anymore with your big swords and spells now, are you?" he asked softly, as the chain creaked slightly under the weight of the ball.

Behind her, Sigrid heard the two other soldiers sniggering. She twisted around to look for Clairvoix. The sword was lay less than meter from her but it might as well have been back in Cyrodiil. It was too far for her to reach…

"You know, I don't know what kind of sound your skull is going to make when I crush it." the Dunmer said in a conversational tone, walking toward Sigrid and forcing her to scoot and scramble clumsily backward to avoid the deadly spinning ball. "_But_," he added in a lower tone, teasingly caressing and soft, at odds with the actual words, "it'll be more fun to hear it crack your baby's...once I've ripped it out of your gut..." he bared his teeth in a wolf-like grin, eyes glittering.

Sigrid watched with sickening, rising horror as the metallic ball lashed in a silver arc through the air and…

"Woooooo!"

An extremely thin silhouette, composed mainly of legs and arms only landed nimbly between Sigrid and the Dunmer. Armed with a staff, the shadow swept the weapon forward, catching the Dunmer's weapon near the hilt, destroying the arc of the ball, and causing the ball to wrap itself around the staff, like a snake about a tree limb, blocking the lethal attack. The shadow flicked the staff back in a practiced motion and with surprising strength for someone so frail, and sent the whole heavy affair flying out of the Dunmer's hand.

"Whoohoooh!" he cackled.

"What the..?!" the Dunmer exclaimed, staring at his empty hand.

None of the shocked onlookers had opportunity to hear the Dark Elf developing his thoughts further, as the newcomer rewarded him with a good knock with his staff - right between the eyes.

The Dunmer blinked and squinted. Then his eyes rolled, showing white and he fell clumsily backward.

"Woooo!"

Sigrid took advantage of the lapse of attention in her direction and lunged for Clairvoix, her fingers its hilt and drawing it to her, as motion returned to the dumbstruck mercenaries. Sigrid pivoted on her hip to look back, sword back in hand...

The silhouette jumped in the air and turned around, allowing Sigrid to see its face. Her jaw dropped in amazement when she recognised him, and she nearly dropped Clairvoix as well, as she scrambled to her feet.

"That old crazy Khajiit!" she exclaimed as he rushed toward the two other mercenaries who had, to their cost, failed to recover from their surprise in time.

"_By Sithis! Gramps rocks!__ Look at him go!" _Clairvoix crowed as the old cat struck his enemies with diabolical accuracy, nimbly avoiding the blows of his adversaries with a grace surprising for one so old, and after a rather short struggle, the mercenaries still conscious found themselves on the ground, moaning and clutching various and many aching body parts.

"Woo! Woo! Woooooo!" the Khajiit screamed jubilantly, making a series of victorious poses with his staff.

"Right, right, whoa, granddad," Sigrid said, grabbing him by the arm while carefully avoiding the staff he was still shaking around. "Thanks a lot for the help but now let's go before they pull themselves together!"

"Wooo?"

"Ah, bravo!" laughed a voice behind them, accompanied by the clapping of hands. "Very entertaining, really!"

Sigrid and the old Khajiit turned around to find themselves facing two more mercenaries, one Redguard and one Bosmer mounted on Senches, the fearsome big cats used by Khajiits as mounts. The size of bulls, with jaws sporting a double pair of sharp canines, the snarling Senches would have made braver men back away.

"Well done, miss," the Redguard continued, still clapping his hands. "You managed to amuse me, but now, you are going to surrender and no harm will be done to you."

Sigrid was about to reply, but another sound made her turned again. She swore under her breath. Two other mounted warriors were coming from the other direction, encircling them.

"_Oh great…__ More big cats full of teeth and claws…" _Clairvoix groaned sparks of apprehension glittering.

"Do you know if Senches have a particular weak point?" Sigrid asked, turning on the spot as she tried to keep an eye on all four mercenaries, unwilling to present any of them with her back for more than a few moments.

"_Well, they are cats, so maybe if you throw them a ball of wool…" _Clairvoix offered, his tone full of helplessness, as well as the sarcasm.

"Don't know why, but I think they would probably prefer playing with my head instead…" Sigrid replied sarcastically, with a bitter exhale of a laugh, scanning her surroundings, desperately searching for any means to get herself out of this fix quickly.

Options were running low, and getting lower as the Senches continued to prowl forward, one massive paw at a time, seeking to herd the Khajiit and Sigrid closer and closer together, until they ran out of room to fight… Sigrid's eyes flashed as the met the eyes of the applauding Redguard, the apparent chief of the group of mercenaries. His shaved head shone in the moons' light, his small goatee, his impressive muscles and the red scar running ragged over his left eye socket – a socket filled by a gold-ringed ruby, a parody of a real eye long lost – everything about his looks and demeanour screamed "beware, evil ruthless bastard!". No, there was really just one option left, and once more she found she didn't like that 'one option left' at all…

"Obey us! Drop your weapons!" the Redguard barked. He no longer sounded even remotely amused by their attempts at courage, bravery or resistance.

"Wooo!" replied the Khajiit, falling on guard and making little circular moves with the tip of his staff.

"_Our hairless friend__ doesn't look very patient…" _Clairvoix observed_. "Maybe we should obey him…?"_

"To end up on a slave market?" Sigrid snapped between gritted teeth. Images of her own mistreatment at the hands of Foulques Monfort swam before her eyes, making her grimace._"Never!" Never again. _

She took several deep breaths and slowly let the magical energy rising in her body, stopping the process when she felt pins and needles in the tips of her fingers. She pointed Clairvoix straight at the Redguard, her eyes glittering with cold resolve.

"Let us go! Or I swear, you will regret it!" And she punctuated her sentence by triggering her magical aura, provoking a luminous flash.

The Senches roared in rage but did not move.

"_Sigrid, no! You still haven't recovered from the last one!" _Clairvoix protested in her head, sounding close to panic._ "And neither have _I_, I can't guarantee the effectiveness of the spell – that we won't blow ourselves up!" _

"I know, but they don't, do they…? And as long as it _looks_ impressive…!" Sigrid's tone held cold anger and something close to desperation.

The Redguard considered Sigrid with a nasty gleam in his eye.

"I was only interested in your companion, witch!" he spat, pointing at the old Khajiit. "But as you seem _so_ eager to share his fate…" There was a clear and almost musical sound as he pulled his sabre out of its sheath.

"Leave us alone, I said!" Sigrid barked. "Or else…!" she added through her teeth.

A wall of fiercely whirling dust and wind kicked up around the Khajiit and the Breton, protecting them from their enemies' sight and attacks.

Their would-be assailants wailed in dismay, instinctively drawing their weapons.

"This is magic, O Bombassa!" one of the mercenaries yelled. "Our weapons are ineffective against such kind of evil spells!"

"I know, you moron!" the Redguard called Bombassa snapped back. He watched the cloud of dust thoughtfully for a few moments, then took a deep breath and addressed himself to Sigrid, still protected by the wall of winds. "You won't be able to keep that spell working for days, you know, Missy!" he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the roaring winds. "So, why don't you and your friend stop your little comedy routine and give yourself up?"

The only answer the mercenary got was an intensification of the winds, forcing Bombassa and his Senche to retreat.

"She doesn't seem to agree..." one of the soldiers noted worryingly.

But he did not have to worry for long.

There was a very short but strange moment when everything went so silent, it seemed every sound had been sucked up into another dimension. Then, the formidable power accumulated by the whirling winds unleashed horizontally.

The squall of wind swept away the mercenaries and their mounts, either slamming into them directly or hurling them against surrounding trees and rocks. All the soldiers were out for the count. All, except one…

Anticipating the attack, Bombassa leaned hard against the neck of his mount to protect himself again the blast. But the witty mercenary also had forced his Senche to crouch and drive its claws in the ground to resist the force of the spell.

Now, he straightened, dusting his clothes nonchalantly while kicking his Senche nearer to Sigrid and the old Khajiit.

"_Nice try__… but… it was not enough…"_ Clairvoix said in a strangely out-of-breath voice. _"This time… we've had it…"_

"_Don't you have a bit of resources for one last spell…?"_ Sigrid asked it mentally, while trying not to faint, sweating and panting form the effort required for such an attack.

"_Sorry, but… I'm using the last… resources I have to… talk… to you…"_Clairvoix whispered thinly.

Sigrid closed her eyes in a defeated move. In the distance, she could hear screams… The rest of the mercenaries were running to the rescue. Nothing could save them now.

"Wooo!"

The old Khajiit leapt in front of Sigrid to stand between her and Bombassa's Senche, menacing the latter with his staff. But the beast softly took its tip in its mouth and turned it into toothpicks.

"Don't be jealous, you old codger, your turn will come…" the Redguard sniggered at the Khajiit who was glaring, mesmerized, at what was left of his staff. "But before that…" he slipped down off his Senche's back and stalked forward towards Sigrid.

Bombassa grabbed Sigrid by the top of her bodice. The Breton offered no resistance, and she felt the fabric splitting as he lifted her bodily from the ground.

But what no one counted on, was Toad.

Hidden in Sigrid's bra, he did _not_ appreciate being disturbed and he expressed his great displeasure by biting his sharp and needle-shaped teeth into the first appropriate target: the Bombassa's finger.

"By Azura's underskirt!" Bombassa screamed in pain, dropping Sigrid and shaking his hand in the air to make Toad let go. But the little animal was determined not to release his grip.

"_Go Toad!"_ Clairvoix encouraged the batrachians. _"Eat his finger… up!"_

"Someone get this thing off_ meeee_!" The mercenary raised his bloodied hand over his head then slammed it violently against his boot. There was a dull thunk when Toad's head hit the heel of Bombassa's shoe and another one when he felt unconscious on the ground.

"_Toad!"_ Sigrid and Clairvoix screamed together, the young woman gathering the few forces she had left to scrabble on her knees to the little creature. He looked groggy and a big bump was forming on his forehead, right in between his antennas. But apart from that, he looked fine.

Sighing in relief, she picked Toad up and put it back in her cleavage, looking up at Bombassa.

The mercenary was sucking his finger, groaning and his eyes flashing with pure loathing as they landed on Sigrid once more.

"This time, you're done for, you and your damned...creature…!" he hissed, shaking a vengeful fist at her before turning around to greet his underlings, coming to the rescue. "Ah, here you are. Finally, you lazy bunch of morons! Now, take care of those priso…" Bombassa stopped and frowned. There was something wrong…"Are you all right, lads…?"

The first mercenary moved closer and, in the light of the moons, the Redguard realised with horror he was literally spilling his guts...right onto his saddle, to the greatest pleasure of his Senche, who was chewing a bit of intestine with gusto. The others mounted mercenaries did not seem in better shape, either, having their throats cut out, missing a limb or even their heads…

"Is there something wrong, Bombassa?" a feminine but throaty voice purred at him.

The Redguard turned around to face the only soldiers still in one piece. The speaker gave a sultry chuckle and took her helmet off, revealing abundant ginger hair and a pretty feline face. Bombassa's eyes opened wide.

"Ashar!" he exclaimed in disgust.

"Herself!" the young female Khajiit laughed coldly, baring her sharp teeth in a smile that promised death at the least. She walked up to Bombassa, swaying slightly as she moved, as if ready to dart left or right at the smallest provocation.

Still smiling, Ashar punched Bombassa in the face, with a crackle of a broken nose. Almost simultaneously, Bombassa's Senche tried to turn against her. Ashar moved faster, cleanly beheading the animal with the terrible razor blade she was holding in her other hand.

Not losing an instant, as if this were the usual order of business, she grabbed the old Khajiit who was making joyful "wooot!" noises and made him climb onto a remaining Senche behind her. Ashar looked down at Sigrid, hesitating on what to do about her, if anything, but the nudge she received from her old companion finally pushed her to make up her mind. She sighed and offered a clawed hand to the Breton to help her up into saddle.

"Quick!" Ashar barked. "Get up! The others don't know what's happened yet, but _will_ find out…!"

Sigrid hesitated, looking first at the blood covered Khajiit, then at the Senche, foaming at the mouth with rage and fixing her with bloodshot eyes.

"No way I am getting on _that _…" she murmured, shaking her head slowly and backing away, eyeing the creature fearfully.

"Get a move before the others come!" Ashar snapped. "We cannot wait!"

Sigrid bit her lower lip. The shouts of the other mercenaries were getting closer.

There was no more time to play the sissy…

"All right, but… Eeek!" Sigrid squealed as Ashar with some distaste, grabbed Sigrid by the collar and dropped her unceremoniously in the saddle, giving the Senche a nonchalant kick to get it moving.

The Senche disappeared in the Elsweyrian night, leaving behind the savannah illuminated by the light of the camp's dying fires.

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The torches illuminated the corridors of the kraal of Torval while Raksada strode swiftly toward his apartments, ignoring the respectful and fearful salutes the guards on sentry gave him. A close observer would have noticed the Dark Elf's stiff gait and the ugly grimace on his face - obvious signs he was not in a good mood. But no one would dare to observe Raksada for too long anyway, fearing to have their eyes scratched out…

Once arriving in the aisle of the Kraal, reserved for the highest personalities of the Government, the Dunmer flung open the golden doors leading to his personal suite and slammed them just as violently behind him.

"_The __filthy rotten bitch… The filthy rotten bitch!" _

The words, absolutely dripping with hatred and animosity, formed a litany running over and over again in his head, and Raksada did trouble himself to contain his temper, but let himself be overwhelmed by rage and loathing.

He passed trembling hands over his face and started pacing up and down his luxurious apartments, furiously kicking at expensive and rare pieces of furniture that had the misfortune to stand in the way of his seething progress. It was neither a very dignified nor a very mature way to behave, and Raksada knew it. But it relieved him…

How dare she…? How _dare_ she? Humiliating him like that? _Him_! _Raksada_! The most powerful mage living on Nirn! She was nothing. _Nothing_! All the talent she had, every ounce of influence came from sharing Sha'ka's bed! That was _all_…! How could she _think_ of holding her own with him on political matters?! On _any_ matters…!

The Dark Elf grabbed a silky cushion lying on the ground near him and threw it violently with a shout. The cushion struck a small, delicate cup of a fragile white material. It shattered on hitting the floor and Raksada winced...

"_Oh, what a__ shame, Raksada! It was such a very exceptional piece of Akaviri porcelain…!"_

The Dark Elf froze, breathing hard, and glared at one of the impressive full-length mirrors, standing imposing against one of the walls. He was not smiling - but his reflection was showing set of white and perfectly aligned teeth…

Some said you could judge someone by how he dressed or how he decorated the place in which he lived

Raksada's room was almost entirely covered in mirrors of all shape and size: multifaceted Dwemer mirrors, bronze Elsweyrian mirrors, silver Cyrodiillic mirrors, Ayleid mirrors with frames set with glowing Varla stones…

Normally, one would think the Dark Elf was only a great collector.

But great collectors did not have magical mirrors able to give life to their reflection because they considered, as the top of sapient species, that only a perfect copy of themselves deserved to share their privacy. And this shifted Raksada from the "hoarder-with-aesthetic-tastes" category to the "psychotic-and-egocentric-bastard-with-a-touch-of-narcissism-and-a-deep-fear-of-death" category.

"Sorry. I had a bad day…" Raksada muttered to the Reflection as an excuse. He then pronounced an incantation and the little cup jumped back on the table in once piece. "Happy now?" he asked, acidly.

"_Very__,"_ the Reflection replied with a satisfied expression on its face.

The Dunmer shrugged and started to eye himself critically in the mirror while the Reflection imitated his movements.

Thank the Daedra he belonged to that category of people who looked good in anything they wore, because otherwise, in those rags Khajiits dared to call clothes, he would look like nothing on Nirn but...a ball of rags…

Raksada sighed and shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to be a baddy. Being evil, yes – but with style, please!

Talking about style, the Dunmer realised this blasted Elsweyrian red dust had built up on the skin of his calves… He murmured an incantation and snapped his fingers. A "swoosh!" somewhere behind the Dark Elf indicated him that a bathtub had obediently and promptly materialised in the room. It was full of hot, delicately perfumed, light purple liquid that lathered abundantly.

Raksada flashed one of his malevolent thin smiles at the nearest mirror. Obviously, being an evil sorcerer offered many advantages – and not only in taking over the world…

He dropped his tawdry Khajiit rags onto the floor and slipped into the bathtub with a voluptuous sigh.

"_So, tell me more about this 'awful day'…"_

Raksada looked up.

His Reflection had left the main mirror and was now glaring at him from one fixed on the ceiling.

"Oh, basically, most of my problems stand in one word," the Dunmer growled as he pressed a sponge against the back of his neck. "And this word is '_Naandi'_," he said with eminent distaste.

"_Sha'ka's wife, right…?"_ the Reflection asked, scratching his chin thoughtfully with a finger. "_Well, why don't you simply kill her?"_

Raksada gave a derisive laugh. He had obviously considered this option but the rivalry which opposed him to Naandi was common knowledge, and, is if that little tart had to die, he would naturally be the number one suspect…

"Quite tempting, but I can't. It would create more problems than it would solve…" Raksada gave another long sigh. If only she could _disappear_, though… He popped one of the soap bubbles idly with a thin finger.

"_Yes.__ Pop! Exactly like this bubble…" _he thought. _"Or maybe in a longer and more painful way..."_

Since Naandi had appeared in Sha'ka's life, she had turned Raksada's into complete Oblivion, taking malicious pleasure in defending opposite points of views and patiently, _exactingly_ eroding the Dunmer's influence over her husband. And this worried the High Councillor to great extent…

Even if recent major events had shown that Raksada still had his say – Naandi's tears were able to make Sha'ka change his mind – the Dark Elf feared the princess could..._would _supplant him as the king's chief councillor one of these days…

The little bitch was clever, very clever and proved herself a great strategist. Plus, she possessed her own network of informants, as proved by her little sally on the rebel village in the Tenmar forest.

Raksada made a sour face at the thought. Another problem to deal with – even if this one should not be too… _challenging_. This handful of grubby morons and their mambo witch were no match to for his powers. And if this old hag, Mama Sam, thought he would let her find the occasion to take her revenge, she was barking up the wrong tree.

But the main trouble with this, was it forced Raksada to go _back_ in the swamps to supervise the operations… A shiver ran along his spine at the very idea.

_T__he swamps… Try not to think of the swamps…!_

But it was too late.

Raksada compulsively grabbed the edge of the bathtub as he felt the water of his bath trying to close over him. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm the crazy jostle of his heart.

It was in those moments he found the practice of the magical arts useful. Indeed, it helped him to overcome those pesky anxiety attacks, thanks to the control he had acquired in the philosophy of mind over matter. He tried to return his attention to the immediate problems he had to manage.

The next one on the list was the arrival of Janus Hassildor, emissary of the Empire.

Aaah, Count Janus Hassildor… What a fascinating subject!

Raksada had followed his career with great attention over the last decades, and he was truly impressed. In less than thirty years, the Count of Skingrad had managed not only to reinforce the power of his district and exercise a major influence over the affairs of the Empire, but he also had taken an active and direct part into most of the major events of the last years of the Third Era – that is to say the Falls of Mehrunes Dagon and Mannimarco.

All that while maintaining secrecy around his identity as a vampire…

Raksada lazily blew on the bubble of soaps which were flying around him, a dreamy look in the eyes. Yes, what a formidable opponent Lord Hassildor would make…! The Dark Elf would love to have a philosophical and casual discussion with the Count on life, the Multiverse and everything. Of course, this would imply to leaving the man's head on his shoulders…

And there was also the Count's ally and friend… Ontus Vanin, the rebel and anarchist mage kicked out of the Arcane University because of his rather unorthodox views on magic and his deep loathing of the managerial staff of the University. For many, Vanin was a troublemaker whose only interest lay in the creativity he displayed in discovering new way to piss of the authorities – that is to say in most cases High Chancellor Ocato and Raminus Polinus. Raksada still wondered why Hassildor was taking Vanin with him. But knowing the Count, he certainly had a very good reason and Hassildor's very good reasons interested Raksada greatly…

The Dunmer blinked when he realised his Reflection was talking to him again.

"Er… Yes?"

"_I was saying that_ _someone has tried to contact you several times today and left a message..."_

"Who?"

The Reflection raised an ironic eyebrow at its frowning master.

"_Can't you guess__…?"_

"I fear I can…" the Dunmer replied wearily, closing his eyes and massaging his arches of the eyebrows.

"_So, do you want to hear them or not?"_

Raksada sighed.

"Do I have the choice?" he half-whined.

"_No,__" _the Reflection chuckled. Then, its eyes became glassy and his voice suddenly took strange intonations. _"You have… one!... new… message…"_ he started, and Raksada rolled his eyes. _"Today, at quarter past thr…"_

"Could you go straight to the point, please…?" the sorcerer demanded grumpily, slapping the surface of the water.

"_S__orry…" _The Reflection coughed, and when it started to speak again, the tone of his voice had changed totally. It was now the one of a woman, who seemed particularly hysterical.

"Where's the beep? I didn't hear the beep! – Kithlan, did you hear the beep? They said I could speak after the beep, but I did _not_ hear any…! Do you think I can speak now?"

There were some background noises, like the ones of chairs being moved around and of a male voice giving muffled and patient instructions to the woman.

"Ah, yes, so I speak right here, mustn't I, right? Yes, yes I see now… Darn modern technology…! Thank you, Kithlan – no, no, you can withdraw, I don't need your services anymore."

There was another break in the woman's speech with the sound of a shutting door in the background. Then, another long silence, only troubled by the sound of someone taking a very long breathing in… Bracing himself for what was certainly going to come next, Raksada closed his eyes, with a groan in the back of his throat, and covered his ears with his hands, screwing up his eyes against the impending verbal explosion.

"_MOZENRAK_! YOU_ SLIMY LITTLE VIPER_!" the woman yelled though the Reflection's mouth, her voice made the mirrors rattle ominously. "I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO CONTACT YOU FOR _DAYS__! WHERE IN OBLIVON ARE YOU_?!"

The protection offered by the Dunmer's hands over his ears being rather limited, he winced and cowered deeper in his bathtub.

Oh dear, the Duchess was having one of her crisis again… That was all he really needed at he moment…

"What do you _think_?! That you are on _holiday_?!" the Duchess continued to scream, although a bit less loudly. "His Lordship keeps asking me news about the progress of our little…_project_! But I am unable to provide him any _information_, given _you_ have not the _sense _to keep me _informed_ on a regular _basis_! Once we had the advantage over our enemies…There is _no way_ – do you hear me?! – _no way_ we are going to lose face once _more_!" The woman stopped, out of breath and breathing hard, but when she spoke again, it was in a whispering, almost scared voice. "They are all around me, Mozenrak…Waiting like the vultures they are for me to show any weakness and to finish me off…Yes…This is what they want…To wallow in my blood and take my position!" The Duchess' voice died in a murmur, but she suddenly burst into an evil cackle which made Raksada jumping in his bath. "But this won't happen – oh no, it won't! And do you know _why_? Because _you_ are going to call _me_ back _soon_ – and with _good news_! – or _else_ I…!"

This time, the Dunmer sank completely in the bathtub so he could only hear the Duchess' muffled litany of threats through the water.

Dear, dear, this was _really_ a bad day… At least, he hoped his men were a bit more successful in their hunt…

(1) Normal horses eat carrots. Shadowmere, being anything but normal, eats rabbits.

- 15 -


	9. The Gold Cat's City

Chapter 8 -

**Chapter ****8 – The Gold Cat's City**

**I just changed the ra****ting of "Out of Elsweyr" from "T" to "M" because of the use of drugs in this chapter…**

**I also**** would like to be clear that I certainly DON'T support the use of drugs – fictional or not XD – and that the narration of the use of drugs here is only done for (cough) comical (cough) effects.**

**So, don't forget kiddies, using drugs is baaaaad! (I know some smartasses could argue great artists used drugs to great extend… True, but I would like to draw your attention on a point: for one amazing but d****rug-addicted artist, how many human wrecks…?).**

**Thanks again to Raven for Beta-reading. ;)**

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Trying to calm the rapid pounding of her heart and leaning against a small tree, Sigrid desperately tried to quell the pain that raced through her. Her efforts afforded her little success, she had to admit. Even more annoying, she also had to admit that it was entirely her fault: she had not trained as much on the physical level over the last few months, and now she was paying for it.

To think that before, she could hold her own against _Minotaurs_…she had to admit, there were some _serious_ drawbacks to living the life adventurous while heavily pregnant. She groaned and massaged her lower back, biting her tongue against the phrase '_maybe _this was a bad idea'. The outcome...the outcome could make it all worth it, she thought, resting her hand flat against her bulging belly, before grimacing again and trying to stand up straight and proud. Still, good idea or not, being pregnant did complicate matters...

"Do you think we shook the soldiers off?" Sigrid grunted to her companion, perched nearby on the lookout at the top of a small hillock. She was holding very still and seemed for a moment to be listening to the wind itself. Then the Khajiit straightened and twitched her ears, much as a human might brush off clothes and pop knuckles.

The female Khajiit – Ashar, Sigrid reminded herself - did not reply immediately, but continued to scrutinize the surroundings, ears pricked and her muscled body tensed in concentration, ready to spring at anything.

Sigrid observed Ashar closely, a tide of jealousy rising in her chest at the thought of her own body which had become somewhat flaccid, not to mention wholly distorted by the baby.

"I think so…" Ashar finally whispered back, her eyes gleaming as they flickered back to Sigrid. She then slipped back along the slope and stopped in front of Sigrid, with a large cunning smile on her face. "And I very much doubt they will be able to trail us with Senches or with Khajiit Rangers…we are very fortunate," Ashar announced as she produced a small leather purse. When she opened it, a nose-burning, throat-scorching smell filled the air nearby, immediately bringing tears to Sigrid's eyes. Sigrid blinked her watering eyes rapidly to clear them, aches and pains momentarily forgotten: there was no doubt what was in that bag...

"Spices?" Sigrid raised a hand to block the fiery fumes from her nose, "Is that what you're scattering behind us?" Sigrid bit down the impulse to bombard the Khajiit with questions as to the spices involved in such a mix, and watched her with some curiosity.

The Khajiit's smile grew wider.

"Yes," Ashar agreed, almost purring with anticipation of someone's impending misfortune, "Very _hot_ spices, to be precise. And I know a few guys whose sinuses are going to hurt quite a bit for a while…"

"What a nasty trick," Sigrid's intention was to merely quote a fact and not express a judgement on the Khajiit's rather inventive methods. In fact, Sigrid considered, it might even work on certain humans she could name - this made her grimace. At least the spices' effects would _really_ linger.

The latter, however, took it as a personal attack. She turned around swiftly and put a handful of claws still stained with blood under Sigrid's noise. The natural weapons glittered ominously in the poor light, and Sigrid's nose continued to burn, from the spices that had gotten on Ashar's hand when she'd opened her little bag. "So what? Do you have a better solution?!" she snarled at the Breton, eyes flashing dangerously, her ears pulling back to lie flat against her head.

"No! I was merely…" Sigrid began, startled.

"If you don't like it, maybe you should go back to those mercenaries to apologise!"Ashar snapped.

"But…!"

The Khajiit brusquely turned on her heel, tail lashing angrily.

Sigrid's hand slid slowly toward Clairvoix's hilt as mix of anger and murderous distaste rose in her chest.

"_Calm down, Sigrid…"_ Clairvoix urged appealingly in her head.

"_She started it!"_Sigrid snarled back, her eyes fixed between Ashar's shoulder blades.

"_Yes,__ she did, but what are you going to do? Stab her in the back?" _Clairvoix demanded, sparking in annoyance and apprehension._ "No, of course not...So calm down, prove you're a bit more mature and go apologise."_

Sigrid rolled her eyes but tried to relax. Clairvoix was right. Getting angry was absolutely useless and, given Sigrid's level of exhaustion and the Khajiit's fighting abilities, it was wholly counter-productive…

"All right, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to irritate you!" the Breton exclaimed, running after the young Khajiit who ignored her superbly. Sigrid grit her teeth and struggled to curb her urge to slap Ashar hard across the face. She would, Sigrid thought bitterly, find herself trapped with the aloof queen of irritating. "And thank you for saving me from certain death…" she added with a forced smile which was far more like a grimace than a grin.

Ashar stopped walking and snorted, then finally deigned to look at the Breton before giving a shrug.

"It's not _me_ you should thank, but _him_," she said shortly, pointing at the old Khajiit. He was sat a few feet from the two women and was fighting with the baby over a banana they had found the Gods knew where. "_I_ would have happily abandoned you to your fate. But _he_ would have made a huge fuss about it, so…" Ashar shrugged again, her tail lashing the air. She shook her head slightly as if to say that she was humouring her elder far more than was prudent.

"_At least __she's honest,"_ Clairvoix snickered in Sigrid's head.

The latter stuck her tongue at the sword mentally, and turned toward the old Khajiit. He had managed to get the banana from the baby and was now trying to prevent the infant from chewing his tail in retaliation.

"Well, er… Thank you, mister…?" Sigrid shot an inquisitive glance at Ashar, hoping for a name for the elder.

Ashar hesitated and the Breton saw a hint of suspicion in her eyes. But she finally made up her mind and introduced herself properly. "My name is Ashar. And these are U'baba and U'bhuti," she added, pointing at the old Khajiit and then to the baby. Both the elder and the infant ceased fighting at the mention of their names, and flashed Sigrid matching toothless smiles.

"_U'baba and U'bhuti, hey?"_ the Breton thought, her brow furrowing thoughtfully.

Sigrid's grasp of Ta'agra, the dialect of the cat-people, was far from excellent but good enough to know that "father" and "brother" were not proper names – even regarding Khajiit standards on the matter. However, she decided to feign ignorance, firstly because Ashar certainly had the right to keep secrets from a perfect stranger. Secondly, because she – Sigrid - did not want to annoy a crazy Khajiit, with a serious disposition towards flying off the handle and armed with a nasty-looking razor blade…

"Nice to meet you, Ashar. I am Si… Berthe. Berthe Doe. And, this," Sigrid declared politely as she nodded to her sword, "is Clairvoix."

"_Nice to meet you,__"_ the sword said politely.

"Ah-_h__ah_!" Ashar exclaimed triumphantly, pointing at Clairvoix. "I knew you talked!"

"_Clever __kitty, aren't you?"_ the sword replied, amused.

Ashar beamed – too toothily to be really reassuring – at and turned her attention back on Sigrid.

"So, Berthe…What has a powerful mage with a talking sword to do in the middle of Elsweyr?" Ashar asked softly, eyeing Sigrid, as if trying to detect any falsehoods or evasions the Breton might come up with.

Under the golden glare, Sigrid swallowed uncomfortably. It would help if the Khajiit would blink...or something...

"Er, nothing…" Sigrid replied, trying not to sound as ill-at-ease as she felt. She was not sure she succeeded.

Ashar blinked slowly.

"And what makes you thing I am a mage anyway?" Sigrid asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

"The spell you used against on Bombassa and his henchmen," Ashar answered neutrally, while maintaining the intense glare she was pinning Sigrid with. "I am not an expert in magic, but this hex was not of the common sort, was it…?"She trailed off suggestively, her eyes sliding down to Clairvoix and back up to Sigrid's eyes.

_Darn__…_ Sigrid was sure that, apart from the mercenaries and U'baba - who seemed as crazy as a loon - no one had seen her…

_What rotten luck…__!_ Sigrid mentally snarled, her grip on Clairvoix hilt tightening. The last thing the Breton wanted was to attract attention to herself. All she'd wanted was to slip quietly into Elsweyr, find out what she wanted to know, do what she had to do and leave. At this rate, she'd be a national figure within a week...of all the fetching bad luck! She was already too easily identifiable as a pregnant woman travelling alone, and _now_ she'd be recognised as a mage with a magic sword. All she needed now was for the old Cheydinhal circus to show up and she could sell _tickets_!

"You _are_ a powerful mage, aren't you?" Ashar asked again.

The Khajiit's insistence made Sigrid feel _extremely_ ill-at-ease. For a second, she was tempted to tell the Khajiit to mind her own business. But, she did not, fearing her outburst might raise more questions and suspicion than a polite answer.

Fortunately, Clairvoix chose that moment to intervene.

"N_o, _she_ is not a mage." _Clairvoix chuckled, as if at some private joke. _"But _I_ am a _powerful_ magic sword!" _it announced proudly.

"Oh? Are you?" Ashar asked, sounding very interested, her eyes sliding back down to look at the glittering blade.

Far too interested in Sigrid's opinion, and Sigrid promptly decided to put an end to this avoid curiosity by redirecting the conversation once more.

"Er… Ashar? Excuse me, but maybe you should put an end to the fight between your two friends before they try to knock each other with their banana…" Sigrid suggested as innocently as possible, pointing past the Khajiit's shoulder.

"Eh?" Ashar scowled in confusion and looked back, following the direction Sigrid was pointing. "Oh!" The Khajiit sighed a little helplessly and turned, rushing toward U'baba and U'bhuti, who had started fighting over a second piece of fruit. The young female grabbed the banana in contention – provoking a concert of offended screams and unintelligible babble from the old cat and the baby – and cut it into two wooden bowls she took out of her bag, murmuring quietly to the elder and the baby as she did so.

"Er… They like their bananas, don't they?" Sigrid started in a pathetic attempt to revive conversation.

"Yes, they do." Ashar replied, now crushing the banana in the bowls along with a bit of water. "Banana purée is all they can eat, you see, toothless as they are…" she gestured at her charges when she had a free hand with which to do so.

"Banana!" U'baba exclaimed happily. "Asante sana, squashed banana!" He laughed as he jumped to his feet and enthusiastically hit Sigrid over the head with his stick, provoking the Breton to squeal hysterically in pain. U'baba continued to dance about, as if completely unaware that it _hurt_ to be bopped with that stick.

"Argh! Are you crazy!?" Sigrid snarled, rubbing her aching head.

"Wiwi nugu mi apana!" U'baba continued to carol blissfully unaware of or – as Sigrid was beginning to darkly suspect – ignoring the fact that he was causing pain and problems.

"Oh, I am so sorry…!" Ashar exclaimed, and she truly sounded it, gently shooing the old cat away. "I am afraid he does that to people he likes…" she explained with a tired sigh.

"What it would be if he _didn't_ like me…?!" Sigrid groaned back, rubbing her throbbing head and shooting U'baba dark looks.

The Khajiit had retreated a few feet away and was whispering and chuckling into his bowl. Despite the fact that he was not looking at her, Sigrid still felt like she had the old cat's attention...though why, she wasn't sure.

"So, er… What are you going to do now?"Ashar asked, looking at U'baba, and not at Sigrid, as if wondering what _she_, herself, planed to do now.

Sigrid took a few seconds to reflect before answering. She did not know why, but she had the feeling Ashar's question was not only motivated by pure politeness…

"I am not sure…" she finally replied, opting for the truth...or, at least, most of the truth. Ashar didn't need to know all of it, after all. "But I am certainly going to continue my travel south, to Corinth…"

At the words, Sigrid wished she'd kept her mouth shut, and the Khajiit's ears perked up attentively and Sigrid a sly gleam in Ashar's eyes. Or maybe she just imagined it, because it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Ashar smiled – but it was not exactly a sincere smile, "because we're going to Corinth as well! How lucky for you."

_C__rap…_Sigrid groaned mentally – she _knew_ the Khajiit had looked all too innocent for a moment, and now she was proved right!

"Oh, that's good news indeed…" Sigrid replied in a very unenthusiastic tone.

"So, why not doing the journey together?" Ashar smiled, showing her many and very sharp teeth.

_R__e-crap… _

"Well, er…" Sigrid fumbled for an excuse to give but was disappointed to find that her mind now seemed to be as slow as her body – nothing was coming up and the Khajiit continued smiling, like a cat that has cornered a mouse.

"_And that mouse_," Sigrid thought sourly, "_is_ me."

"_What a great idea!"_ Clairvoix exclaimed enthusiastically.

"Clairvoix, shut up please…" Sigrid whispered with a frozen smile on her lips.

"_But…!" _the sword protested.

"Shut. Up." Sigrid snarled.

"Is there a problem?" Ashar asked, frowning and glaring at Sigrid and the sword in turn.

"Er… Would you excuse us a minute?" Sigrid asked with an apparently friendly smile. "Meeting time!"

And without further explanation, the Breton moved away from Ashar and installed herself far what she thought must be out of the Khajiit's earshot. Sigrid took Clairvoix out of its sheath and held it in front of her – the position she adopted when she wanted to hash things out with it.

"I think I preferred when you were too exhausted to speak…" she growled at Clairvoix, glaring darkly at it. "Why do you want to travel with her? Are you crazy?!"

"_Sigrid, we can't refuse her offer! We don't have the means to survive out here! We don't, and you know it!"_ the sword protested.

"Clairvoix, the mercenaries who attacked us were _after her_! You heard Bombassa mentioning he wanted U'baba. And don't forget, Ashar and Bombassa seemed to know each other _really_ well…!" Sigrid added, remembering the cold look and the vaguely sadistic pleasure on the Khajiit's face when she'd sunk her fist into the mercenary's face.

"_We all have our little problems__, don't we? After all, the Dark Brotherhood is looking for…" _Clairvoix added.

"Ssssh, she could hear us!" Sigrid squeaked, shooting a quick glance above her shoulder to make sure Ashar was not trying to listen in on the conversation.

But the Khajiit was still busy feeding U'bhuti and U'baba, who were having a good laugh throwing handfuls of banana purée at each other, blissfully ignoring the content of the meeting going on, some yards away.

"Listen. There is no way we are going to travel with her, all right?" Sigrid said, softly but resolutely.

"_Why __not? Because of the mercenaries? We kicked their ass once, we can do it twice…"_

"First, we _didn't _kick their asses – we barely got_ ours_ out of trouble at the last minute. And secondly, this is _not_ the same problem…! Have you seen Ashar's weapon?" Sigrid dropped her voice a little lower, and leaned closer to Clairvoix, "Clairvoix, it's a Dagomey Razor!" Sigrid's eyes flickered back, catching the trio of Khajiiti in her peripheral vision. she looked back at Clairvoix. "That means she is a _Virgin of Dagomey_, Clairvoix! And _don't_ tell me you didn't know, because I won't believe you!" Sigrid added darkly.

"_And __that's even _better_!" _the sword retorted, sparkling in annoyance at Sigrid's reticence towards seeing sense_. "She_ must_ know the country and its dangers perfectly well! She'd be a perfect guide!"_

"Of course she does, because she is _one_ of those _dangers_…!" Sigrid groaned. "Are you just not _listening_ to me?" she asked a little helplessly.

"_Sigrid… Do you __honestly have _any_ idea of the direction to take to reach Corinth from here?"_Clairvoix asked kindly, and sympathetically...the tone one uses when asking a rhetorical question, or a question to which they already know the answer.

"Well… Yes, of course!" Sigrid said staunchly and looked around, casting about for references or landmarks, "I mean… According to the position of the Shadow in the sky, and given that Masser and Secunda are moving east, we…"

A pause.

"Yeah, right, I don't know where we are." Sigrid admitted reluctantly, with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. "But it is _not_ a reason to travel with a psychopathic teenager flanked by an old dodderer and a dribbling baby, _all_ of them being chased by a bunch of bloodthirsty mercenaries!" Sigrid looked once more behind her, but Ashar was still busy feeding the baby. Reassured, she continued in a lower voice. "Have you heard of the Virgins' reputation? They are _nuts_! Like nuts crazy-nuts – not like back...you know...They're said to devour the males with whom they mate as well as any male progeny…!"

"_You'__re a woman so you have nothing to fear from her then!"_ Clairvoix replied cheerfully before its voice became serious again. _"Sigrid, the Virgins of Dagomey are not chosen as the Mane's personal guards for no reason – they're amazing fighters, by Sithis! With someone like Ashar at our side, our chances to reach Corinth alive get multiplied by two!_"

"Or divided by _ten_!" Sigrid retorted, wholly unconvinced. "This Bombassa guy and his gang are great fighters too!"

Clairvoix sighed. It knew they had reached a dead end in the argument. It better tried to find a powerful counter to this argument, or Sigrid would never accept Ashar's offer. And it sounded infinitely better to Clairvoix to trust this Virgin of Dagomey – whatever Sigrid's concerns –than to answer around in the middle of Elswerian Nowhere until they either died or went crazy.

"_Sigrid, we _don't_ have any other alternative… I'd rather take the risk to face Bombassa again than getting lost in that huge savannah. That's a lot of nowhere to walk through...particularly if you have no clue where you are!"_ The sword took a deep breath and reluctantly pulled out its trump card. _"Didn't you say you were ready to do anything if it could help you bringing Martin and Vicente back…?"_it asked softly.

The ambient temperature seemed to drop several degrees. All the blood instantly drained from Sigrid's face, leaving her pale as porridge.

Clairvoix held its metaphorical breath: this was it. All or nothing...

"Of course I am ready to attempt anything…" she said in a breath at last. "How dare you call that into question…?" Sigrid asked, sounding genuinely hurt. "How _could_ you...you know I...that I..." she trailed off, biting her lip.

Sigrid started to absent-mindedly draw abstract figures in the red sand with her forefinger, a painful, clouded, but dreamy look in the eyes. Clairvoix wished he could still access her thoughts, but the Sigrid kept her mind carefully closed. She finally sighed and quickly erased her drawings carelessly with her hand.

"The thing is I don't trust Ashar much," she announced, rubbing her hands against one another to clear the dust from them. "It is obvious she's hiding something from us…"

"_I d__on't trust her either, you know,"_ the sword replied encouragingly, giving Sigrid the mental equivalent of a pat on the shoulder. _"But my intuition tells me our safety and our chances to see our friends again rely on her. That's all I'm saying: 'let her get us to Corinth', not 'trust her blindly'."_

Sigrid frowned thoughtfully, as she watched Ashar and her companions. Sigrid suddenly sighed and shrugged, and Clairvoix knew it had won.

"I hope you're not wrong…" Sigrid said slowly, running a hand though her hair. "Otherwise, we are _screwed_."

"_No worries! Seriously, have I ever been wrong before?"_ Clairvoix asked cheerfully.

Sigrid grimaced and stood up, returning the sword it its scabbard, a little more roughly than she might normally have done, and ignoring its protests.

777777777777777

Once again, the Night Mother's crypt in Bravil was filled with the presence of Sithis, the Dread Father, the Void, the Great Empty Space, the End of All Things…

Of course, talking about the "presence" of an entity by essence entirely linked to the notion of emptiness was a bit paradoxical, but after all, this was Nirn, where magic was omnipresent, and paradoxes were numerous. And anyway, this precision in vocabulary did not seem to worry the Night Mother much…

"There we are, O my Lord." her voice resounded against the damp walls. "As you wished, I informed Arquen she had my blessing to organise the Synod…"

"_Good."_

"… even if I disapprove of it," the Night Mother added grimly.

"_Obviously__."_

The Night Mother's spectral eyes rolled in her likewise spectral sockets. She hated when her Lord was set on monosyllabic answers. "I hope you are satisfied, now."

"_I am."_

Two syllables…Ah!

"Tell me if I annoy you…" the Unholy Matron announced sullenly. "I know you know what I am talking about, but you could at least feign interest!"

"_You are__ such in a foul mood today…"_ the Dread Father observed pleasantly. _"You are worried, aren't you?"_

A sarcastic cackle answered It.

"Worried, me?" the Night Mother sniffed and crossed her arms, scowling, "No, not at all…. You see, I _truly_ don't care about the fact that allowing Arquen to organise a Synod will wreak _havoc_ in the Dark Brotherhood! You are _perfectly_ aware this blasted Altmer is going to take this as implicit authorisation to do as she pleases, and _this_ will automatically generate tensions – and we both know how assassins tend to put an end to tensions…! " The Night Mother finished her rant.

"_Yes, we do…. But this is a salutary and necessary conflict, I am afraid."_ Sithis replied. To someone not used to conversing with great cosmic entities, the Void's voice might seem perfectly neutral and monotonous, but the Night Mother was certainly no beginner in the field and therefore was perfectly able to sense resignation in her Lord's tone. _"The Dark Brotherhood has been plagued for too long by the rivalry between the conservatives and the reformers – and Bellamont made good use of this opposition… It is time for the members of the Brotherhood to choose their side." _

"It would have been much _simpler_ to order them to choose _a_ side…!" grumbled the Night Mother.

"_No. It would only force things to smooth for a while. The hostilities would start again later, but more violently and maybe not in a favourable time for us."_ The Dread Father made a pause, and this time, the Night Mother sensed something like amusement in Its voice when It started speaking again_. "You know, a civil war within the Brotherhood was exactly what J'Ghasta expected when he chose to go after Trencavel alone. And it is what Lucien dreaded when he decided to follow J'Ghasta and leave Arquen in charge. Fascinating how these two often have the same intuitions but have a different point of view on them…"_

The Unholy Matron shrugged. The psychology of her absentee Listener and Speaker did not interest her much, and knowing she would not be able to make her Lord changing Its mind on the Synod, she decided to diplomatically change the subject.

"Speaking of those two big dummies… How are they doing?" she asked, a little sourly.

"_Not bad__. Not bad at all - even if they need a bit of help from time to time…But this is normal, given that they are no match for the forces which have already started to rise up against them. Nevertheless, they are being quite useful, as always…"_

"And Trencavel?"

"_As you know, she is beyond my reach__... But we would know if something bad had happened to her."_

The Unholy Matron sighed heavily and shook her head. "I don't understand… I really don't. It is not the first time a Daedra Prince clowns around. Before, we carefully tried _not_ to get involved," the spectre commented, her face twisting into an irritated pout. "Our opposition to Merhunes Dagon last time was motivated by particular reasons but…"

"_Yes, but _this time_, you know it is not _only_ about Daedra Princes."_ Sithis interrupted her. _"We are now facing entities much more powerful than Daedra or Gods, and the resolution of the struggle remains very unsure…"_

There was a sudden silence.

"Wait a minute…" the Night Mother started carefully. "Are you trying to tell me you don't know what is going to happen next?!"

"_Yes_._"_

The Night Mother's jaw dropped.

"But you are omniscient!" she protested, trying to wrap her mind around the concept just presented to her.

"_No__t exactly…"_ the Void explained patiently. _"I have a clear vision of the possible futures offered to us, but the current presence in the Game of the Eternal Champion, whose destiny is not written, prevents me to foresee exactly which one of the futures is going to prevail…" _

"And… what are the odds for the future with a happy ending for the Multiverse?" The Night Mother asked, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

"_If you __are thinking about something like 'one chance over a million', I am afraid we are far from the count… But do not worry. Things are not completely out of hand – yet." _

An amused smile appeared on the Night Mother's translucent lips.

"Is that supposed to put my mind at rest?"

"_It is. Even if blind, I am not completely powerless…"_

777777777777777

A seagull reeled in the glorious blue sky above the far less glorious city of Senchal.

Senchal… The great, filth-ridden and foul-smelling den of all the pirates of the Topal Sea, the wart of the Quin'rawl Peninsula, the rear base of all the trafficking of all unlawful substances in Tamriel snoozed quietly in the unbearable humid heat of the Elsweyrian southern coast.

Well, snoozing? That was yet to be seen…Crime never truly rested, as proved by the screams of those who suddenly found themselves relieved of their purse, or in some extreme cases, of their lives.

Emperor Uriel Septim, while still alive, always worried about keeping his empire unified. He had shown deep concerned regarding the creeping chaos which ruled over Senchal, one of the most prominent harbours of the Topal Sea, outstripped only by Leyawiin and Soulrest. Therefore decided, after his ascension, Uriel took drastic measures against the scourge in Senchal, but while the Imperial Legions were sharpening their spears, ready for the hard way of enforcing the peace, the young Emperor caught everyone off guards by inviting the principal crime lords of Senchal to the Imperial City and offered them a deal they could not refuse…

It was easy. The Empire offered to surreptitiously close its eyes on most of the illicit activities going on, and even offered them titles and the relating benefits, in exchange for their maintaining an acceptable level of order in Senchal and the security of the ships passing through the harbour. Everybody would get what they wanted out of it: the crime tycoons could keep their sources of revenues while the Emperor would not have to spend a septim to guarantee social peace in the city.

It was quite an offer, which finally pleased all the parties, the latter having perfectly understood the points of common interest – especially when the alternative consisted for the Senchalians being mercilessly and immediately put to the sword as the Emperor launched himself into a military campaign that would cost him many lives, a lot of money, and no small amount of irritation…

Obviously, such innovative and progressive politics caused quite an uproar in the Elder Council. Uriel's detractors argued that 'you could dress cut-throats as respectable men and grant them titles, but they will only become well-dressed and elegant cut-throats'. This was probably true, but soon, even the malcontents had to admit that the Emperor was right to bet on people's need for social recognition, as well as on the negotiating talents of a young and promising smuggler called Ya'Tirrje who soon managed to convince his colleagues of the validity and fairness of Uriel's deal. Particularly as the aforementioned 'putting to the sword' would begin with those on hand – namely they themselves, the crime lords, now enjoying the position of 'the emperor's personal guests'.

And the aforementioned guards with spears sharpened were only too happy to make that start that very day.

Soon, the different gangs of smugglers and dealers slowly began to organise into small societies of bandits, then into bigger conglomerates. However, it was under the subtle, guiding influence of Lord Ya'Tirrje – now known as the "Gold Cat" – that they finally joined together in a loose federation simply known as the "SyndiCat", based on a very simple principle: organised crime. But in Senchal, "organised" really meant 'highly organised'…

_E__very_ illegal activity, bar none, relied on a complex system of quotas and of professional licences the goal of which was to ensure every criminal a job without killing any of the geese that laid the golden eggs.

And as weird as it may seem, it _worked_.

Slowly and timidly, the middle class who had fled the city came back, vaguely reassured by the arrangement of not being bleed dry, thanks to the 'protection' offered by the SyndiCat against those who persisted in exercising their criminal activity as freelancers. Of course, some criticized the "anti-thief insurance system", which, according to them, was more like protection racket than a real insurance policy. But Lord Ya'Tirrje, as the enlightened leader he was, always made sure he listened to their complaints before throwing them in the Quin'rawl River with weights tied to their feet. It looked better, politically speaking to listen first, and deal with it later.

As a result, Senchal once more found itself an active commercial platform, its bourgeoisie thrived again and so did the criminals who were no more parasitically leeching the society, but living with it in more or less perfect harmony. The system functioned so well it even survived the weakening of the central power after the death of the last heir of the Septim dynasty. Too many people had too much to lose: for example, those luxurious villas with debatable taste in architecture which had burgeoned over the past decade on the top of Senchal.

And this was one of those expensive and well-furnished villas our seagull chose to perch on…

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about it, in this neighbourhood apart from the fact this was the only house in which people were partying, whereas the rest of the city was taking a noontime nap. And given the noise from inside – music, laughs and the like – people were definitely having a good time, certainly helped by the great quantities of Skooma and Moon Sugar they were gulping down…

But supplying those expensive drugs was certainly not a problem to Fog Marley, the Dagi Khajiit owner of the villa and organizer of the current little get-together… As one of Ya'Tirrje's right-paw Khajiiti, he had unlimited access to the stocks of drugs which were otherwise carefully monitored by the Gold Cat in order to guarantee the stability of the prices on the market.

One could ask how Marley could have become such a prominent dealer in the traffic of Skooma and Moon Sugar without respecting the "Golden Rule" of the profession: never consume your own product. But Marley was more than a dealer – he was also a _philosopher_, a _visionary_ and an _artist_ who thought creation could only be found in artificial paradises. And to him, paradises were never artificial enough…

...enter moon sugar and all its lovely derivatives. Paradise in a bottle.

Sat on a small platform covered in silky cushions in the centre of the 'dining' room, Fog was patiently rolling a cassava pancake spread with Moon Sugar jam, trying to remember where he was exactly, with regards to his address… By Fadomai, it was so hard to focus and explain the Rastajiit philosophy on life(1)! Especially, he grinned, after having down three bottles of Skooma and a dozens of pancakes…!

Fog Marley scratched his head - or rather, the green, yellow and red coloured knit cap he considered highly fashionable, and wore jammed over dreadlocks and his own ears.

Hang on…wait a moment...He had _already_ talked about the necessity to think positive and to free oneself from all those negative vibrations in order for them to find their _I man_, the inner self… But now what…? Oh yeah, now he remembered…!

"And don't forget!" he started again, his voice vibrating with passion – or maybe just from too much Skooma. "We must remain careful about politicians and their dirty politics, because they will try to divert us from...!"

"Eh, sorry, man," a Khajiit interrupted him, hazily waving a paw.

Fog Marley blinked at the – to his mind – odd motion. Why was this cat interrupting him?

"But I think you mean 'poli_tricks_' and not poli_tics_…" the other said lazily, flicking his tail back and forth.

Fog Marley looked at him for a while with a dumfounded expression on his face, before suddenly beaming with delayed understanding. "Oh, yeah! Sorry man! Poli_tricks_! Yeah, this is what I meant!"

The Rastajiits present in the room looked reassured and started beaming and nodding to each other. _Politricks_, yeah…They were extremely pleased with that new word they had invented. It sounded so cool, so witty, so... _Rastajiit_.

"Hey, sorry man, but I have question." another cap-and-dreadlocks-bedecked Khajiit announced, raising a hand. "If we want to efficiently oppose of those evil poli_trickians_, why don't we simply create our own party? Not that I am criticising and stuff, but… action is often more efficient than talks, isn't it?" he looked back and forth among his comrades to see if the idea would stick.

There was a long and embarrassed pause.

"Naaah, man, naaah… You don't get it." Fog Marley finally replied reproachfully. "Taking direct actions would mean entering the system and getting contaminated by it. And we can't afford that, man! We need to stay pure. To reach our _I man_, and to stay pure, we mustn't do _anything_." Fog Marley beamed at the others, waiting for the top cotton on.

The whole assembly took a moment to let the though sink in and take root in Skooma-softened minds before they let out an unanimous cheer in favour of Fog Marley's wisdom, and the Khajiit who had dared to propose something as gross as "taking action" slowly sunk in the silky cushions, red beneath his fur with shame. Indeed, deep in their heart, Rastajiits were "armchair" revolutionaries, whose philosophy could be summed up as "why bothering risking our life for our ideals if we could simply set the world to rights from our sofa, while rolling ourselves Sugar Moon pancakes"? (2)

"Feel the flow, man!" Marley declared, raising his hands above his head, his accent giving the words an almost lyrical note. "Let the flow drive us toward the Truth!"

The Rastajiits around him nodded appreciatively, even if they had absolutely no clue on the flow Marley was talking about. But it sounded good.

"You know, I feel like my _I man_'s getting _iya and iya_…" giggled one of the Rastajiits, who was so stoned he was squinting – not that it helped any. "Could you throw me the moon sugar jam please? My pancake feels lonely…" he gestured at said pancake with his free hand.

"Here you go, man!" Fog Marley replied ebulliently, tossing the jam and forgetting to cap it, threw it to the Khajiit who wanted it, resulting in a shuffle to catch it before it spattered everywhere, and much noisy licking of fingers. "And, by the way, the rhythm you're beating is very cool."

His companion blinked, looking up from his finger-licking, and shot Marley a weird look, but a weird look coming from the copious consumption of Skooma and Moon Sugar by either party.

"I'm not beating any rhythm, boss," he said carefully. "But I think that's someone's knocking on the door…"

"Er... Beg your pardon, boss, but can I get in?" asked a muffled voice from behind the door.

"What do you want?" Marley barked. The dreamy look of blissful unconcern on his face had completely disappeared and had been replaced by a deep distrust.

The door opened an inch and the face of Gugu, Marley's sergeant, materialised in the crack between door and frame.

"Sorry to interrupt your, er…" Gugu's forehead wrinkled under the effort of concentration before his face suddenly brightened. "...Oh yeah! Your session of 'creative and collective shooting'– but we need your help, boss. We've just arrested a couple of troublemakers and we're not sure what to do with them."

Fog Marley hissed in annoyance and dismissed the guard with a disdainful swipe of his paw, the motion of which nearly unseated him. "Be a bit more creative, man! I don't know…! Give them a hammering and let them go – I have more urgent matters to deal with," he added, shooting a sidelong glance at the jars of Moon Sugar jam.

"I'm sorry boss, but I must insist…" The soldier had an embarrassed cough. "The two were caught dealing in very likely stolen goods."

"So what? It is more or less what we all do here!" Marley cried, waving his arms. This time, he actually did tip over onto one elbow, and merely settled into the newer, more comfortable position. "Be creative! Use your mind!" Marley waved the guard off.

"Well, yes boss, but the trouble is they… don't have _a license_," Gugu said, knowing it would usually take three or four iterations of a problem before the meaning actually penetrated Marley's sugar-haze.

Everyone in the room gasped in a magnificent chorus. The music stopped immediately in a concert of false notes and all eyes riveted on the sergeant.

"They _what_?" Marley demanded, shooting to his feet and tottering slightly.

Gugu uneasily shifted from foot to foot. He was a simple henchman, just looking forward doing his job, he and hated being the centre of attention like this. Particularly when his boss was cruising on moon sugar and in a fairly unpredictable mood. "They _don't _have a _license_, boss," Gugu repeated, masking the bad news in a fake cough. "There were four of them, but we managed to arrest two."

Fog Marley glared at his sergeant, now giving every appearance of being completely normal, and in his right mind. The news had the same effect as a cold shower, and Gugu knew perfectly well why…

The SyndiCat did not mess about illegal activity, and the managers who had the worst statistics on the subject of 'freelancers horning in' won a personal interview with Ya'Tirrje to talk about what people euphemistically called "career development". And no one liked Ya'Tirrje's concept of "career development"…

"Bring them to my office!" Marley demanded as he stormed from his sanctuary of sugary bliss to his office. Someone was going to pay dearly for forcing this unwelcome change in scenery...

After having crossed a few rooms and storming along several long corridors, the Dagi finally reached his workplace where several soldiers where already waiting.

"Bring them in!" the drug tycoon demanded as he threw himself down on the ground behind a small table that acted as his desk.

His henchmen obeyed him at once and dragged into the room the two shackled offenders: an exceedingly bedraggled Imperial and a rather relaxed-looking Cathay-Raht.

The dealer winced at the sight they offered.

The duo were definitely not in good condition, but strangely, it didn't look like it was from any bad treatment they may have received from the SyndiCat's soldiers…Indeed, Marley had the impression that they had not seen civilisation in a while, as evidenced by the scent emanating from them, which started to tickle his nostrils. The rags they wore were so repulsive he would not have made his maids clean the toilets with them, and for a second, the drug dealer even wondered if the Imperial was not a Rastajiit too, given his hairstyle… He'd never seen an Imperial with such a magnificent set of dreadlocks before...what a novelty! Unfortunately, Marley could also _feel_ the bad vibes rolling off that one...

However, most surprising about the prisoners was not their deplorable physical state but rather the fact they did not seem at all concerned by their immediate environment and situation. They were simply too busy bickering violently despite their obvious level of exhaustion…Marley scowled, mildly confused by this walking pair of paradoxes.

"I told you it was a completely stupid thing to do!" the Imperial spat in his companion's face. "But did you listen to me? _Nooo_, of course not!" he looked away irritably. Here, Marley decided the unnatural pink in the Imperial's face was mostly sunburn, as the Imperial looked ready to turn _purple_ at the slightest provocation.

"I would like to draw your attention on the fact I was trying to sell those things _only_ to get money to buy _you_ food, because you were an inch from fainting like the pampered _girl_ you are!" the Khajiit replied between gritted teeth.

"_What_?!"

What indeed? Marley wondered as the Imperial began to take on shades like a boiled lobster. He glanced back at the Khajiit. With enough moon sugar...he should hire these two as his personal entertainers. If he didn't kill them first.

"Yeah, you heard me right! You are a _sissy_!" the Khajiit sneered.

Fog Marley looked back at Gugu, raising an eyebrow to which the sergeant replied with a puzzled shrug. Marley shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes: why today? Why _any_ day? The bad vibrations were going to give him a headache... "Excuse me gentlemen," the dealer started politely, "but I think we…"

The prisoners were obviously not listening, more intent on facing each other with nasty gleams in their eyes. The soldiers were having difficulty keeping them from trying to attack each other and Marley suddenly realised his men actually had _shackled_ the two hotheads to prevent them to go at it hammers and tongs. _Oooh man,_ the Khajiit groaned in his head, _why me?_

"… not _even_ mentioning the fact Ormil and Graman managed to beat it!" the Khajiit roared. "And what's more with the few things we grabbed from those corpses in the river! What the hell were you doing when they ran away?!"

"Maybe I was too busy fainting like the pampered girl I am?" his accomplice snapped venomously.

"It is _always_ the same with you, you can't be _trusted_! If only you had been able to talk to Trenca…_her_ without pissing her off and getting on your high horse, we wouldn't be in such a skint!" the Khajiit shouted.

The Imperial became speechless with indignation, and Fog Marley saw there an opportunity to intervene.

"Eh, can I get a word in?" he asked, waving a hand between the two arguing prisoners.

Apparently, not, because the Imperial ignored him superbly, found his tongue and attacked again.

"The _nerve_…!" he said, making a falsely admiring whistling noise. "Why don't you simply admit you sent me to the front _on purpose_, perfectly knowing it would be a complete disaster and just for the pleasure of blaming me afterwards!"

"Yeah, you're right. I did that on purpose!" the Khajiit replied sarcastically. "You see, it is always such a pleasure to see your pride _literally_ crushed by a _girl_!"

"_Excuse me…!"_ This time, Marley yelled. The two paused in their argument, looked at him…and promptly started quarrelling again.

Marley goggled: it must be a very old argument indeed...and he was running out of patience.

"… and Polly is gone too now!"

"What a shame…!" the Khajiit sniggered. "Another girl who walked on you..!"

Fog Marley rolled his eyes. Despite the fact he was an inveterate criminal, the Dagi was not a violent man at heart and he truly believed in dialogue and mutual respect. But enough was enough!

He made a little sign to two his henchmen, who promptly gave a nasty blow to each of the prisoners' abdomens, with the shaft of their spears. The result was instantaneous. They immediately stopped arguing to slowly collapse on their knees, their eyes full of tears and groaning in pain.

"I hope I am not interrupting you, gentlemen." Fog hissed in an attitude of forced and sarcastic politeness, his fingers drumming impatiently on his table. "Now that I have your _full_ attention, and if you _don't_ mind, I would like to talk with you about the reasons which brought you before me…"

He made another sign to Gugu, who cleared his throat and started to formulate the accusation.

"The defendants in question were caught red-handed, conducting criminal activities without a permit, and upon being asked to produce said licenses, assaulted the official representatives and members of the SyndiCat. The public prosecutor's department demands…"

The Imperial frowned for a moment in confusion behind his curtain of dirty black hair at the statement of the facts. Then he took on an expression of absolute indignation, eyes flashing.

"Hang on, hang on… _Defendants_? _Public prosecutor's department_?" he demanded indignantly. "Is this a _tribunal_? If so, I want a lawyer!"

Fog Marley sighed. Dear Fadomai, it was going to be a really, _really_ long day…

"Gugu, please, would you mind explaining our _guest_ how the legal system works here in Senchal?" he asked, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. Already he was wishing for nothing more than a comfy cushion, a massage, and a couple dozen moon sugar jam slathered pancakes...

The sergeant beamed and, turning toward the Imperial, he delivered him a nasty right hook, and the equally nasty left hook followed in quick succession. He then grabbed the panting prisoner by the hair and forced him to look at his chief.

"The system is as follows: he talks. You don't." Gugu said smugly.

"Would you like to make another suggestion, wise guy?" Marley asked with a friendly smile.

"Forget about the lawyer…" the Imperial whispered between ragged breaths, though his eyes clearly told everyone in the room what they could do with their moon sugared legal system.

"Good!" Marley replied in a honeyed tone, before his feline face twitched in anger. _"Lawyers!?_ By Azura, where do you think you are!? In the Imperial City?!" he roared, banging his fist on his desk. "This is _Senchal_ here, gentlemen! And no one can deal in stolen goods without a licence in _my _sector! Is that clear?!"

"We didn't _know_ about the licence!" the Imperial objected, apparently unable to keep his mouth closed. "We acted in good faith – all right, all right, I'm shutting up now!" he added quickly as Gugu moved toward him again, grinning, his fist ready to strike.

"And the goods were not exactly stolen," the Khajiit corrected quite diplomatically by comparison to his comrade, "given we took them from people who did not seem to need them anymore…"

Marley had a little smile and shook his head.

"Nice try, man. But I am afraid looting corpses is _still_ a crime, and thus, the goods must be considered as illegally acquired," The Dagi brought his hands before his lips as if he was praying and took a falsely sad expression. "Thus, you two are guilty and have just won a ticket for a nice – but certainly short – stay in the scorpion pit." The least they deserved, he thought pleasantly, for ruining such a lovely day with their bad vibes.

The Imperial's face fell at the words, but his Khajiit companion remained rather nonplussed, if not amused. He was staring persistently at the dealer in a way which was making the latter feeling rather uncomfortable, to the point that Marley started to claw his desk – behaviour apparently common, if the deep grooves to either side of the table were any indication.

"Would you mind lowering your eyes and erase that little satisfied smile off your face very or should I ask Gugu to teach you a minimum of politeness?" Fog growled.

This did not seem to unnerve the other Khajiit the slightest. On the contrary, he gave the drug dealer a large piece-of-melon-shaped smile. "Oh, come off it, Ayodele! Knock off the tough guy act, you don't impress me in the _slightest_," he announced, shrugging.

Fog Marley blinked. He had not been called by his real name in ages. Only his dear old mother knew it, and the guy in front of him looked nothing like his mom…there wasn't enough moon sugar in the _world_ to confuse the two.

"My name is Fog Marley," the drug baron snarled, his chops curling up and revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "And you don't forget it – or else…!" he added nastily.

"Or else what? You already condemned me to the scorpion pit!" The Khajiit burst out laughing. "You know, I almost didn't recognise you with that new hairstyle of yours and that shapeless _thing_ on it. Seriously, it makes you look like a complete idiot…instead of only half of one. "

"_How dare you…?"_ Marley demanded, getting to his feet. 

"Relax, Ayie of my heart..." the Khajiit coaxed mockingly, "Or do you want me to explain to your henchmen here how I used to kick you in the pants when you still were a kitten wearing nappies?"

The imperial glanced from one Khajiit to the other, as if coming to the confusion that he was the last sane person in this entire misbegotten city.

There was an uneasy, angry silence during which Fog Marley glared at the prisoner with something like fear in the eyes. Only one Khajiit in Mundus could know that level of details on him and be that cheeky…

"_J'Ghasta?_"

(1) Sloppy "wow-man-I-am-so-stoned" Putumayo I, the founder of the Rastajiit movement, could either be considered as a genius or as the biggest joker in the whole philosophical history of Tamriel.

Wishing to denounce the material and destructive side of society, Putumayo started to made up a theory of life mainly based on calling any living being "man", consuming as much Moon Sugar and derivatives as possible, wearing funny colourful caps and dreadlocks and singing funny songs with maximum two chords in them…

Quite popular among the Khajiits of the South, the movement never spread further than the Quin'rawl Peninsula, but nevertheless drew the attention of historians and philosophers across the Empire.

Nowadays, those specialists are not sure if they are facing a true, deep and revolutionary philosophy of life, or simply an absolute farce made up by a guy mainly concerned about offering teenagers wanting to rebel against their parents' authority a new way to give them shit…

(2) This rather extreme position has earned Rastajiits the reputation of being pacifists, even if a less charitable and probably more objective category of people tended to call them "bloody slackers".

- 10 -


	10. Disappointments

**Chapter 9 – Disappointments**

**Thanks a lot to Raven-Studio for**** awesome job she does as a Beta reader ! :D**

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_Lucien sprinted through the labyrinthine streets of Bravil, running like he had never run before. The muscles of his legs screamed and protested and his lungs seared, each breath like a knife, but did not care. He had to arrive on time, or else…_

_How could this have happened? In only a few days, his entire world had completely collapsed around him…First, the Purification of the Sanctuary – _his_ Sanctuary – the empty, needless, useless deaths of people he considered his friends, and in some cases, as father and children... Then, J'Ghasta turned up murdered… _butchered. _After that, the situation completely disintegrated, spinning out of his control, if he'd ever had any over it, and exploding into total chaos._

_Lucien felt bile roiling in his stomach, burning his throat as it rose at the thought. He could _not_ let anguish and fear overcome him – he _couldn't_! Too many things at stake...there was still this one chance... _

_The bastard who had orchestrated all this knew too well where to strike to destabilise him, and the confusion the Speaker had experienced recently had already cost far too much time ... Precious time he could have used to work out _how_ the traitor was using _his_ Silencer against the Black Hand – and against him…the very thought hurt. More than it should. _

_Out of breath, Lucien finally arrived in the little square, in the middle of which the Statute of the Old Lucky Lady stood serene, surveying the scene. He froze. _

She_ was there. _

_And few feet from her, the well known figure of a Bosmer layon the ground, an arrow stuck in his throat. _

_Too late…_

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Lucien woke up panting in a cold sweat, enveloped in a suffocating a cloud of white feathers, his pupils dilated with terror.

Breathing hard, he blinked several times to let his eyes getting use with daylight, trying to calm the crazy almost painful pounding of his heart as the feathers of his ripped-apart pillow settled softly like Cheydinhal snow on his back and face. Glaring at the ceiling for a moment, he started scanning the room before looking sheepishly at what was left of the pillow he had torn apart while helpless in the grip and throes of his nightmare.

_Where the Oblivion was he…?_

A draft wafting in from the wide-open window raised goose pimples up and down his back, as well as on very sensitive parts of his anatomy. With a weary sigh, Lucien raised his head a bit to take look at the lower part of his body. He groaned at the sigh and his head fell back heavily on the mattress.

_All right. Correction: where the Oblivion was he doing here_ completely naked? In his experience, waking up stark naked in a strange place - no matter how comfortable – rarely wound up being a good thing.

Yanking the sheet up to provide himself a little more cover, he tried to bully his mind, still fogged by sleep and by his terrifying dream, onto more important things. Focusing on an explanation for his presence in this bed and in this room, for instance…

His hands started to search and pat slowly, gently around the bed– just to make sure he was _really_ alone – his fingers finally closing over something other than the bed sheets. He closed his fingers around it and dragged his hang before his eyes.

_A yellow, green and red knit cap…_

The sight immediately triggered something in Lucien's brain, a scattered, disjointed, _disorienting_ series of images…An enthusiastic reunion with a lot of demonstration of joy… _Far _too many people he did not know slapping him the back, as if he had known them for years…And then, a big party with plenty of girls, Moon Sugar-based food – and a lot of Skooma too…

"_No. Not a lot…"_ Lucien groaned inwardly, flopping back, facedown onto the mattress, as his brain started to throb. It was as if just _thinking_ about alcohol was enough to revive the almost forgotten hangover. _"Too much Skooma."_

The Speaker was not incredibly familiar with Khajiiti customs, but apparently, the cat people's customs concerning welcoming back an old friend mainly consisted of consuming as much alcohol as possible before either collapsing head first on the table, in your plate – or worse, in somebody else's plate. Actually, now Lucien thought of it, it did not change much from the rest of the world which had relatively similar traditions regarding reunions: mead drinking binges in Skyrim, Imperial orgies, Breton blowouts…

While Lucien's mind busily enumerating all the kinds of parties he had taken part so far in his rather busy life, something flapped above his head, disappearing with a piercing scream somewhere in the region of his feet.

Lucien groaned inwardly. _What…?_

Swearing under his breath, he sat up, and, trying to ignore his growing head-ache, squinted at the thing perched on one of the posts of its bed. It was a bird. A bird with colourful feathers and a powerful hooked beak sat preening serenely…Lucien raised a sceptical eyebrow at it.

"Polly?" he ventured.

"Crrrackerrrrr?" the bird cheeped at him before returning attention to its plumage.

A blanked expression blossomed on Lucien's face before he burst out laughing and affectionately lobbed what was left of his pillow at the parrot. The latter avoided it easily and circled once overhead, coming to perch on Lucien's bare shoulder, while the white feathers of the pillow flew all across the room in a snowy ballet, something seemingly out of place in the sweltering atmosphere of Senchal.

"Would you mind telling me where you went? I was worried." Lucien chided affectionately, rubbing the underside of Polly's beak and chin with a finger.

The parrot obviously did not reply, but stared fixedly at Lucien, twisting its neck to look at the Imperial's face from every angle possible.

"And how did you manage find me? After all, Senchal is not exactly your basic village..." Lucien asked again, shifting to scratch the parrot gently behind its head. "J'Ghasta's right, you know…You are a _weird_ creature." Speaking of J'Ghasta, Lucien smirked, he'd have to point out that Polly had not _left_, she had simply taken cover in a bad situation – a mark of intelligence, not a result of any deficiency in his own personality. It would come up eventually – these things always did, with J'Ghasta.

Polly nibbled the assassin's finger gently before leaving his shoulder to perch on the polished bronze mirror, standing on a small table made out of glossy ebony wood. The bird perched, perfectly still, looking at Lucien with small, black, beady eyes. The later took it as an invitation to drag himself out of his comfy bed, which he did with a groan and much-needed muscle-limbering stretch.

Yawning, the assassin continued stretching and flexing his sore muscles, massaging his face slowly with the tip of his fingers as he walked toward the small table on which, in addition of the mirror, lay a bowl, a jar full of fresh water and – wonder of the wonders – a _razor_. Lucien beamed at the sight.

The day before, he had benefited from a bath with soap, the help of several pleasant and cute female Khajiits to untangle his hair. Sadly, though – Lucien's hands ran along his hairy cheeks – he had been unable to find something to shave with, this activity having absolutely no reason to exist among people entirely covered in fur… Fog Marley had proposed he should use Sergeant Gugu's _machete_, but Lucien had declined the offer, arguing he was looking to shave, not to behead himself…

The assassin sighed and eyed himself in the mirror. Fog Marley's healers had done a great job. Apparently, there were no traces left on Lucien's body of his ordeal through Elsweyr's wild nature nor of the rather painful_ "_reminders of the rules" from Sergeant Gugu yesterday…

Well, "apparently" only because, given the bushy beard which hid most of his face, it was actually a bit hard to say... Lucien winced. He did _not_ like wearing a beard. Like this, he looked like his father, and the very thought put him ill-at-ease…

"Time to scalp all those ugly hairs, hey, Polly?" he asked, grimacing.

"Crrr!"

Lucien took the razor in his right hand and, frowning in concentration, he examined his chin from every angle, trying to determine where to attack first. This was tantamount to trying to clear Elsweyr's hostile landscape into well-regulated urban bliss, Lucien decided.

Shaving was an exercise which required all, or at least most of Lucien's concentration. Indeed, if for ninety percent of the males around the Multiverse(**1**), shaving simply consisted of clearing as many hairs as possible from their face while not nicking themselves unmercifully. Lucien's objective was to leave enough to obtain the effect of two days' stubble, just enough to give him a rather roguish air. Obviously, this required a lot of dexterity to manipulate the razor, but nothing beyond the reach of a skilled assassin like Lucien, for whom blades were just natural extensions of his hands.

Nevertheless, Lucien could not make any mistakes, because if he did, he could forget about his 'cool-roguish-look", would have to shave right down to the skin to avoid a patchy job, and would be forced to walk around with skin as soft as a baby's. Which, according to Vicente and J'Ghasta, made him look like "Mister-Perfect-Son-in-Law" – the last outrage for a ruthless killer…

While the blade of his razor ran softly against his cheeks, Lucien's thoughts centred back on his nightmare, more particularly toward the lonely, dark silhouette standing near Ungolim's corpse near the statute of the Old Lucky Lady…

In his dream, the assassin had not seen her face, but he did not need it, to know who she was…

_Sigrid… _

Lucien winced at the very thought, but got a grip on himself as the razor blade drifted dangerously close of his skin. _Sigrid Trencavel…_ Since she had entered his very well organised and structured life, she had turned it into a bloody mess…and thinking about her while shaving was courting a shaving disaster, he reminded himself ineffectually.

To think that, when Ungolim had told him he had to recruit Sigrid, the grand-daughter of the infamous assassin Rivanone Trencavel who had trained J'Ghasta and Lucien himself, the Speaker had experienced a strange mix of excitement and apprehension! Excitement because meeting the descendant of his beloved mentor was an opportunity which had been always refused to denied him by none other than Rivanone herself, and then after her death, by Vicente. Apprehension, because Lucien was convinced Sigrid was as talented as her grand-mother and he was not sure his own talents could compete with hers…

The Speaker soon found himself both reassured and disenchanted, because if Sigrid had many common points with her grand-mother, from her physical appearance to her artistic and fighting talents, her undeniable aptitude at hurling around sarcastic and hurtful comments, there the comparison stopped.

Rivanone was a born killer who, between breakfast and lunch, had already left one or two corpses in her wake, while Sigrid had trouble to hold back her tears when she came to see Vicente and Ocheeva to get her reward after completing her contracts…

Lucien harboured private doubts about Sigrid's aptitude as an assassin right from the beginning, but from doubtful he quickly became appalled at the girl's lack of enthusiasm for sending souls to the Void. So much so, one day when the Sanctuary was almost empty, he decided to confide in his mentor, friend and resident Breton vampire, Vicente Valtieri.

"_It's _catastrophic_, Vicente."_ The Speaker had whispered, collapsing on a chair near the vampire, who was reading as usual at his desk. _"Trencavel has absolutely no talent as an assassin…. Worst! She even seems to dislike the job…!"_

Impossible! Unheard-of! That the granddaughter of Rivanone Trencavel went into the Dark Brotherhood and was _not cut out for it_!

But neither this statement, nor Lucien's agitation, unsettled Vicente in the slightest. He had simply continued nonchalantly turning the pages of his "Vampire Weekly" newspaper.

"_Well, she carries out her duty well enough for me._" The Breton had replied, perfectly neutrally. _"Nevertheless,_ _even if she is not exactly enthusiastic at the prospect of spilling blood, I understand she likes 'hunting' her targets and…"_

"_But we both know it is not sufficient!"_ Lucien had interrupted him, banging his fist on Vicente's desk. To the Speaker's greatest annoyance, even the outburst and abuse of the furniture was not enough to make the vampire drag his eyes from the interesting article on the last fashionable coffins on the market. _"We are a sect of _professionalassassins_, Vicente! What am I going to do with her if I have to tell her off to force her to do her duties?"_ He sighed heavily and observed Vicente closely before speaking again. _"Tell me…Do you think the Night Mother made a mistake by making us recruiting Trencavel…?" _Lucien asked quietly.

At this point, the Breton had finally closed his gazette and had shot the Imperial a bright smile full of fangs. "_My dear Speaker and pupil, _you_ are _blaspheming_…"_ the vampire had chuckled, deeply amused by the offended look on Lucien's face_. "I am sure our Unholy Matron had extremely good reasons for making you recruit Trencavel. Besides, you should keep in mind that killing abilities are certainly not hereditary, otherwise, your job function as Speaker and recruiter for the Brotherhood would be completely moot."_ Then, Vicente's tone had become kinder, almost paternal._ "You must understand Sigrid _is not_ Rivanone, Lucien. So please stop assessing everything the girl does – or doesn't do – using her grandmother's achievements as the criterion…" _

"_And_you're_ the one telling me that…?!"_ Lucien had replied in a sarcastic tone he had regretted immediately. _"I'm sorry Vicente. I didn't mean to...you know…" _Lucien waved vaguely.

The vampire had shrugged, but his very dark expression had shown Lucien that, despite the years which had passed since Rivanone's death, it was still a very sensitive spot.

"_It is fine, Lucien."_ The Breton had replied composedly, with a sad smile._ "And yes, I must admit I am not completely objective in Sigrid's case either… But don't worry. I am sure the Night Mother's choice is perfectly well-founded."_

Soon indeed, the reasons behind Sigrid's recruitment became clear, and Lucien had done his best to assist her in the ordeals she had to face, being extremely_ patient_ and very _nice_ – both to respect Rivanone's memory, but also because he had believed he could have had a… privileged relationship with someone who had been raised by Lady Rivanone Trencavel…

The Speaker gritted his teeth, pulling the razor back as he grimaced, so he wouldn't jeopardize a so-far perfect shave. What a _moron_ he was! He had risked his life and J'Ghasta's to protect Trencavel from the hatred of her cousins, the Montforts, and even from the idiocy of her fool of Prince Charming who had rather unwisely condemned her to death by signing a letter he had not read! The fool. And in spite of all _he_ had done for her, all the little pest had shown him in return was a profound scorn…!

_Argh!_

Lucien let out a series of swear words. This proved it, on Trencavel could ruin a perfect shave. The blade of his razor had swerved from its planned trajectory slashing into the soft skin under the hairs. Scared by his violent reaction, Polly flew away from the mirror, screaming her discontent loudly as she perched on the post of bed, her feathers ruffled in supreme indignation.

"Sorry Polly… I did not mean to scare you." Lucien muttered, looking around the room for something to soak the blood from the cut on his cheek. It was not deep, but facial wounds tended to bleed like they were fatal…

A bitter smile appeared on Lucien's face as he pressed a bit of his bed sheet against the cut. Last time he had received a facial wound, it was after J'Ghasta had gratified him with a clawed slap, indirectly because of Trencavel. The assassin's smile grew wider. He should really stop thinking about her if he did not want to end up completely disfigured…

Now he had no more reason to be particularly cautious about his shaving. Lucien finished quickly and, still stark naked, he poked about in the bedroom's many cupboards for something to wear.

"Blimey…" he grumbled as he rummaged about in one of the cupboards. "Do these guys were something else than colourful loincloths? I am _not_ going to walk around mostly, or even half naked!"

Lucien was not especially prudish, but he really wanted to put as many things between his skin and Elsweyr's harsh climatic conditions, and the exuberant plethora of man-eating insects...He finally found what he was looking for, and dressed in short black pants with a dark green singlet and a pair of Imperial sandals. Nothing very fashionable, really, but that would do – for the moment.

"So, what do you think, Polly?" he asked the parrot, turning slowly for the bird to take a better look at him.

"Cracker!"

Lucien beamed. "Awesome." he replied, holding his forearm to the bird. The latter immediately perched on it. "And now, let's see where our dear kitty J'Ghasta's gone and put his nose…"

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Lost in the immensity of the Elsweyrian savannah, a small group took shelter under a tree.

Ashar insisted the group to make a "banana purée" break, and Sigrid had not protested much. It was the middle of the morning, and the heat was already almost unbearable. While the Virgin of Dagomey and her companions installed themselves a few feet from Sigrid.

Sigrid herself sagged against the trunk, enjoying the coolness of the shadow, Clairvoix lying at her feet, and Toad sleeping on the top of her head had, having left the shelter offered by the woman's cleavage. Or rather, trying to sleep, because Sigrid and Clairvoix were arguing yet again…

"_Come on, Sigrid, stop pouting like that! I know it is quite a loss for you, but it could have been your life you lost out there!" the sword argued. _

"Now you mention it, I wonder if I would have _preferred_ dying over there…!" Sigrid spat bitterly.

"_Stop talking nonsense! Your life is worth much than a trinket!" _Clairvoix cried, sounding thoroughly appalled.

But despite Clairvoix' sensitive attempts at comforting her, the young woman remained inconsolable. The day before, she had suddenly realised she had lost the necklace engraved with belladonna, the same necklace Vicente offered Rivanone as a token of his love, before he finally offered it to Sigrid, after Rivanone's death. The badlands had echoed with her rage and despair when she had realised she probably lost it during the fight with Bombassa and his mercenaries.

"It was not a _trinket_! It was the only souvenir I had left from my grandmother and Vicente!" Sigrid cried, not caring anymore who heard her, trying to restrain her tears.

Clairvoix worried. This trip was wearing much harder on Sigrid than the girl had ever guessed it might, and not just physically… The crisis of despair she experienced after she realised she lost Rivanone's necklace seemed to have offered a permanent place to the unpleasant "thing" Clairvoix had felt in the girl's soul a few days ago. It was there, in her mind, standing still and making Clairvoix enrage because it remained out of the sword's reach…

"_Well, not the only one…You still have me!"_ Clairvoix ventured, and if it had had a face, it would have been making puppy eyes. "_After all, am I not Vicente's sword...? Hmm, all right_, _all right, forget about what I said…"_ it added quickly as Sigrid shot it a very dark look.

She sighed as she returned her attention on the landscape before her. Sliding down the trunk of the tree to land ungainly on the ground, her face contorted with pain and stress.

"I am _seriously_ wondering if it was a good idea to come here…" she whispered, touching Clairvoix's hilt, shaking her head. "For the moment, I've lost far more than I have won…" Sigrid privately wondered, as the savannah shimmered and wavered in the heat, how much more she could lose, her hand moving instinctively to rest on her swollen abdomen. The sword did not seem to agree with her.

"_It would have been quite unfortunate, really, because – apart from the crazy mercenaries of course – the place is nice! Look at that scenery!" _Clairvoix encouraged, fizzling pleasantly, though whether the feeling was genuine or for her benefit, Sigrid didn't know.

"I am not here to play the tourist, Clairvoix…" Sigrid sighed, running a hand through her damp, sweaty hair.

But her sarcasm did not truly hide her amazement at the landscape before her eyes. Sigrid had never come this far south in Elsweyr – the travels with her father stayed limited to the northern part of the country which consisted mainly of desert – and she was regretting not having her pastels with her, because the landscapes of this part of the Cat People's territory were absolutely breathtaking…

Vast plains stretched out endlessly in front of her, in a mix of green and yellow grass, randomly punctuated by the ochre of the Elsweyrian ground. Here and there, herds of strange animals passed by and, on the banks of a small nearby lake, a dozen pink flamingos picked through the muddy waters in search of food while big animals Sigrid identified as 'hippopotamuses' bathed a bit further away.

The Breton felt a lump in her throat at the sight of them. It was Vicente who first had talked to her about those animals, on the battlefield of Bruma... It seemed that an eternity had passed since then…

She sighed and returned her attention on the massive silhouette in the background of the landscape.

Like a giant sentinel standing in the middle of nowhere, Mount Kilim'Djaro dominated the scenery with its impressive mass, its snow-capped and flat summit surrounded by a little crown of clouds. The permanent snow winked and shone brilliantly in the sun, and Sigrid understood now why the Khajiit population had nicknamed this rocky megalith the "Mountain of Splendours", which, according to Khajiits' belief, was the heart of all Elsweyr and – given the inherent ethnocentrism of any religious belief – the centre of Mundus.

In spite of the magnificence and the important religious symbolism of Kilim'Djaro, Sigrid forgot she had yet to climb the steep and covered-in-jungle sides of the mountain, if ever she wanted to reach the holy city of Corinth and its Oracle.

She felt the cramps in her legs and back worsen threateningly in protest at the very idea…

"I won't make it, Clairvoix." she moaned, her eyes still riveted on the Mounts. "It is too hard…" the words were involuntary, and her voice broke as she said them.

"_Of course you'll make it."_ The sword replied heartily, happy to see that Sigrid had momentarily forgotten about the necklace. _"You had made much worst in the past… Everything seems insurmountable to you now because your morale is way down in your socks. What you need is a small… tonic." _

At the words, Sigrid felt a soft source of heat radiate against her chest. Clairvoix had activated the datadice, and the young woman's hands closed on the little cube hidden in one of the pockets of her bodice. She was about to take it out, but she suspended her move.

"No. I really don't feel like it at the moment..." she replied neutrally, releasing the pressure of her hand on the dice.

"_What?"_ the sword exclaimed, its voice full of surprise. _"But a few days ago, I had to fight to make you stop using it...!"_

Sigrid shrugged listlessly. "I just don't feel like it anymore…" she replied, continuing to feign a perfectly casual tone.

Clairvoix was not fooled…

"_Strangely, I find your sudden and rather unexpected lack of interest for the living narration of a mission which concerned your grandmother, Vicente, J'Ghasta as well as a short appearance very a very young Lucien quite hard to swallow…" _the sword sniggered. _"Why don't you simply admit you are afraid of facing again a version of Lucien which doesn't suit your perception of him?"_ Clairvoix asked sneakily.

Sigrid groaned inwardly, wondering why she thought she could fool Clairvoix, of all people. Clairvoix knew her far too well, having once lived in her head, and it abused from it without any remorse.

"Yeah, all right, maybe…!" she snarled back. "Anyway, who cares about what he was? As I said before, it is what he _became_ that matters!"

"_Oh really?"_ Clairvoix replied in a sarcastic voice, his aura darkening with something like melodrama._ "Tell me one thing, then. Do you remember, a few months ago, you and Lucien went to Thoronir's shop…?"_ it asked softly.

Sigrid froze as the memory flashed in her head. A series of pictures she thought she had erased from her memory suddenly popped up in front of her eyes: Lucien's golden-brown eyes looking deep in hers, the contact of his callused hands against her cheeks, his lips getting closer…The Breton felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair, and she had to mobilise all her will to chase those dangerous, _treacherous_ thoughts away.

"Nothing _happened_, all right?" she hissed between gritted teeth, breathing heavily and still very red in the face.

"_Because Thoronir stepped in at the worst moment."_ Clairvoix smirked. _"Answer me frankly, Sigrid… What would have happened if you two had kissed?"_

"Nothing." Sigrid retorted staunchly.

"_Liar."_

"_Nothing!_" Anger was gradually building up in Sigrid's chest and she was curbing her urge to kick the sword to make it shut up. She didn't want _him_. If she did..._If I did, I wouldn't be here_, she asserted forcefully.

"_Liar!_ _You _are_ attracted to him! Until the last moment, you hesitated between him and Martin! It was like watching a pendulum swing. I _was_ there, you know." _the sword pressed.

It was the last straw. Despite her heavy belly, the Breton jumped on her feet, pointing a menacing and shaking finger at the sword while Toad fell from her head on the ground where he stayed, four legs in the air, wondering how he had landed here…

"_I was not_!" Sigrid yelled so loudly that Ashar, U'baba and U'bhuti "Nothing could have happened between me and Lachance, nothing can, and nothing _will_, do you hear me?! _No-thing_!" she shouted, then bit her lip, chest heaving. She stopped, both because she was out of breath and because she had realised the three Khajiits were staring at her in awe.

"Berthe? Is everything all right?" Ashar asked, rather gently compared to her usual demeanor, frowning as she searched Sigrid's face, livid white with rage.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine!" the Breton muttered as she sat down, burnishing away straying locks of hair which escaped her ponytail.

Ashar made a little, unconvinced pout but reported her attention back on U'bhuti, who started to squeal because she had stopped feeding him.

"_Well, if you are so sure that 'nothing could, can and will happen' – as you say – why are you so touchy on the subject? Why do you let yourself get so worked up?"_ Clairvoix asked calmly.

"Give it a rest, Clairvoix." Sigrid sighed, picking up the toad and starting to pet him in her lap.

Clairvoix decided not to give her any rest and attacked again. _"Have you ever thought that, if you had kissed Lucien first, maybe now you would not be pregnant with Martin's child, but with our dear Speaker's…"_

Lucien's baby… For some reason, the friendly face of Lachance as a child flashed in Sigrid's mind and she opened her eyes to chase them resolutely away.

"I refuse to discuss the matter further with you!" she growled to Clairvoix. "Your word-twisting is close to indecency! With such things as 'if' and 'maybe', I could make the Imperial City fit in a bottle! Martin was… _is_ the man I love! Nothing or no one will ever replace him!" Sigrid hissed, remembering not to shout.

"_Maybe…"_ the sword whispered mischievously. _"But you are still afraid to use the datadice, aren't you?" _

"I am not!" Sigrid snapped, feeling tears sting her eyes.

"_Prove it then."_

"All right!" she spat, retrieving the datadice and cursing herself for having let Clairvoix taking her in so easily. "All right! If it is the only way to make you shut the fuck up, I am going to use the damn cube! Happy?!"

Without waiting for the sword to answer, Sigrid took the datadice in between her hands, closed her eyes and whispered the ballad of Death's Servant until the datadice opened. She then tried to empty her head from all her feelings and thought – quite a challenge given her current state of mind – until the now familiar dark maelstrom sucked her up.

When Sigrid opened her eyes, she was contemplating a large hall full of well-dressed people, most of them conversing with their neighbours, most of them holding in their hands a cup of whine, a little toast, or, in some cases, both at the same time…

"_A ball?_" Sigrid wondered, her eyes lighting on the little details, one at a time.

"_A reception, I would say…"_ Clairvoix informed her. _"Do you remember? J'Ghasta mentioned it during our last visit in his thoughts…"_

Sigrid nodded mentally. Yes, a reception… Or more precisely, the reception organised by Lord Saevus, the ruler of Howldeath, as shown by the overabundance of draperies at the colour of the city hanging from the ceiling, the huge braziers burning at the four corners of the place and the tables covered in overpriced, almost inedible 'delicacies'. One could feel that the lord of the manor wanted to put on a big show, but the result was clearly lacking a taste, and even had a "careerist" touch…

Sigrid decided to forget about her aesthetic considerations and directed her attention on the sensations experienced by her host, who was observing the room and its occupants carefully. He was letting his tongue running nonchalantly along his teeth among which were an unusual – to Sigrid's way of thinking - and rather impressive pair of fangs.

Sigrid smiled. This time, she was back in Vicente's mind…

The vampire was lazily leaning against one of the pillars of the reception room, sipping a cup of wine thanks to a straw he had introduced in the mouth opening of his mask of black ceramic – a present from Rivanone, who had made it her duty to make sure her beloved vampire had at his disposal a fashionable and useful accessory to conceal his face during the "public" moments of his missions as a Dark Brotherhood assassin.

Vicente shifted, readjusting his heavy velvet cloak. The temperature in the hall was stifling, and he was boiling under the many layers of clothes he wore. But someone who was supposed to have survived the Purple Plague was not supposed to wear less than the three layers of clothes Vicente was currently supporting. It was an inalienable element of the credibility of his part. Indeed, wasn't this terrible disease supposed, in the worst cases, make its victim's skin melt like wax, turning them into living and skinless parodies of what they once were, forced for the rest of their life to wear numerous layers of clothes impregnated with opium decoctions to protect their now-exposed muscles against the elements and the pain?

Of course, such an outfit restricted the vampire's movements more than he liked, and Vicente knew that, in case of trouble, he would have difficulty using his sword efficiently. Nevertheless, his role as an infirm survivor offered many advantages. People tended to see him as perfectly nonthreatening, and there was not exactly a huge crowd trying to see what exactly was hiding under the mask and the robes…

Vicente sighed, pushed the straw away with his tongue and resumed his careful examination of the guests… There was an individual who seemed to particularly attract his attention…

The baron Silvius Marcus Saevus, lord and master of Howldeath, standing in the middle of the hall, surrounded by a horde of courtiers. The former Legion officer was a good head taller than everyone in the room. Despite he was over fifty years old, he was still a redoubtable fighter, Vicente was sure.

Powerfully well-built, his impressive musculature barely weathered by the years showed through slightly under clothes and his hands, muscled by the prolonged handling of the sword, looked huge. He kept the regulation closed-cropped haircut of the Legion, but his chin was covered in a bushy black beard totally prohibited in the Imperial military forces.

"_Saevus."_ Vicente thought, his eyes following the Baron across the room. "_'Cruel', in _Imperialin_…"_

Really, no name could have suited the lord of Howldeath better, as he exuded violence and death… Indeed, the ex-commander Silvius Saevus was well known in the military world for his propensity to use the _decimatio_, the much-dreaded martial sanction which consisted in executing one soldier in every ten, as well as for having organised the bloodiest civilian massacres in the rebellious regions of Skyrim.

Vicente knew this kind of man very well, as he had met many other "Lord Saevuses" during his long life… Field officers come up from the ranks but mediocre military commanders, who never achieved any brilliant action in their life, and who, in their impatience to show the world their courage, committed terrible mistakes which lead to the massacre of their troops…and it was always the troops who paid for those mistakes.

Lord Silvius Saevus was no exception to the rule. His desire to prove himself had pushed him to become reckless, and the massacre of his subordinates during a stupid engagement in the frosty forests of Skyrim lead to his definitive disgrace. Embittered and convinced he had been victim of a plot to keep him a low ranked officer despite his valour, he left the Legion.

He finally resolved himself to marry a rich heir, Lydia Agylica, baroness of Howldeath, gaining the wealth and honours refused him when he was a soldier. But even there, things did not go according to plan. Lord Saevus' wife died five years after their marriage – which was not displeasing to the Baron, who held no affection for his wife – and a few weeks ago, his beloved son Corvus had joined his mother, after drowning in the lake he used to swim with his friends.

And so there was Baron Saevus… A lonely and bitter tyrant, his rights over his lands contested by his Dunmer neighbours, hated and feared by his people, and ruling his household with the same kind of discipline he used in his entrenched camps in Skyrim.

Vicente was not fooled, not even for a second, for a heartbeat.

Despite the festive ambiance, Howldeath reeked of fear, and Lord Saevus' unstable temper was certainly no small factor to the deleterious atmosphere hovering over his property like a heavy shadow…

The hall suddenly echoed with the guttural laugh of the former legionnaire, guffawing at one of his courtiers' flash of wit. In the red lights of the braziers, Saevus looked more than ever like an ogre. Vicente shivered in disgust and preferred turning his attention back to a far more pleasant sight…

A few feet from him, Rivanone was practising one of her favourite pastimes: seduction.

As lady of a certain social status and a very much-in-demand bard, the Speaker was accustomed to those long and often daunting receptions, and she had learned a few techniques for staving off the inevitable boredom, to which she added her own personal touch. Vicente always took a great pleasure observing her in action…

Lady Trencavel's favourite trick consisted in following around the servants carrying the trays of food and drinks which allowed her to eat and drink as much as she felt like. But it was also the best way she had found to meet as many people as possible and to gather plenty of useful information…

Vicente's lips stretched in an amused smile as he watched her babbling excitedly about the last fashionable musical creations with a bunch of fat and old men who were sweating abundantly – not so much because of the heat in the room than because they had an unobstructed view afforded by Rivanone's ample bosom and low-cut bodice.

After all, those powerful, rich and often egocentric men were certainly extremely flattered by the attention a pretty lady like Rivanone might bestow upon them. What they most likely no please them was the fact that the pretty lady in question already knew everything concerning their lives and, according to the information gathered, had determined the best way to put an end to them.

A tray of drinks passed by, and, in a silky whirling of her robe, Rivanone followed it to join another groups of people.

Vicente sighed and slipped his straw back in the hole of the mask to drink more of his wine. To think he was once an adept at this kind of high-society party. He had had to forget about them after he received the Dark Gift. Now, fortunately for him, there was the young Janus Hassildor and his "guaranteed hundred percent vampire" parties…Vicente smiled.

"Excuse me, sir…?"

Vicente did not move his head, but his eyes slowly moved from Rivanone figure standing at the limit of his range of vision.

"We have not been introduced, I think." the voice continued, speaking Imperial with a slight accent, and Vicente was ready to bet his interlocutor was a member of the Dunmer delegation.

"_Bingo._" He thought as he finally turned to face the voice, a young-looking Dunmer – but in the case of Elves, it was always hard to determine their exact age – wearing the traditional outfit of his land, a long robe and a headband which hold his long and slightly curly black hair back his forehead. Vicente thought he was extremely handsome – even if a bit too "feminine" in his opinion.

"I am Master Araklos Drothan, lords Avoni Dren and Methas Hlaalu's personal advisor." The young Dark Elf continued in his lilting voice, gesturing toward two other Dark Elves who were following him. "We are sorry to accost you in such a cavalier way, but my companions and I were wondering if, by any chance, you would not be Master Valtieri, Lady Rivanone's musician…"

Vicente's eyes narrowed. Yes, this Dunmer put it he did not like to be accosted like that. Usually, people were avoiding any kind of contact with the plague victim he was, but apparently, these three Elves did not care.

"My lords." the vampire replied, a bit on the defensive, but hiding his trouble with a quick reverence. "I am indeed Vicente Valtieri, Lady Trencavel's personal musician. Meeting you is a great honour…"

"The honour is all ours, Master Valtieri." Lord Dren interrupted him with a nasal tone which immediately got on the vampire's nerves. "Meeting an artist of your class is the dream of any music lover!"

Vicente replied to the compliment with a short jerk of the head, and while the Dunmer continued to rave about Vicente's musical talent, the vampire's mind quickly reviewed all the records of the members of the Dunmer delegations Rivanone had given him in preparation for their mission. Of the three men he had just met, Lord Dren's was certainly the longest and the saucier…

Avoni Dren, from the House Telvanni, was a pure extract of vice – but what else to expect from the most extremist of the Telvannis, who, in their phobia of anything exogenous, had authorised breeding between close relatives? And if endogamy could lead to wonderful specimen like Master Drothan – physically speaking at least – its abusive practise could sometimes lead to decadent creatures like Dren…

Avoni Dren was once one of King Helseth of Morrowind's favourite courtiers, appreciated for his great political skills, but unfortunately, his excessive taste for young children, especially little boys, and the many relating scandals had forced Helseth to remove him from the centre of power. Nevertheless, the king of Morrowind still required Dren's services for occasional missions, and the latter was doing his best to polish up his image. But he had not succeeded yet in coming back into Helseth's favour…

But it was above all Dren's physical condition that impressed Vicente. He had never seen a fat Elf before, or any living creature with _that_ number of double chins… The vampire stared at them, fascinated, as they trembled and wobbled as Dunmer kept extolling his love of music. Through the discourse, a strange thought crossed Vicente's mind… Maybe Lord Dren's double chins were like the rings in tree trunks, and counting them would give you his exact age…? Vicente chuckled inwardly at the inappropriateness of his thoughts. Aaah, Telvanni…! Quite a bunch of characters, really…

"… and this is what makes me say she is certainly the most talented person of her generation." Avoni Dren concluded with a satisfied little smile.

"Your lordship is a connoisseur." Vicente replied politely. His remark was perfectly lulling, but he could barely say something else given he had only paid attention to the last few words of the Dunmer's speech.

"I am." Lord Dren puffed himself up, his fat body quivering with pride. "I have myself composed a few odes..."

"Fascinating…" Vicente replied, bracing himself for a long and boring discussion on Lord Dren's so-called musical talents.

Fortunately, Methas Hlaalu – who apparently was not ecstatic at the prospect either – intervened. "Tell me, Master Valtieri. How long have you been collaborating with Lady Trencavel?"

"For a bit more than ten years now, I think." Vicente answered smoothly.

Hlaalu was about to reply, but Araklos Drothan interrupted him.

"You must know her quite well." the young Dunmer observed.

Vicente smiled and chuckled inwardly._ If only he knew…_

"Indeed, and I feel honoured to have remained her personal musician for all these years. It is not given to everyone to be able to work for such a long period of time with…"

Drothan's harmonious featured stretched in a smile Vicente found rather unpleasant.

"I was not talking of your _professional_ relations with her, Master Valtieri…"

"Drothan…" Lord Hlaalu warned, frowning. It was clear he did not like the track the discussion was taking, contrary to Lord Dren who seemed to enjoy the show a lot.

"It is fine, your lordship." Vicente replied in a forced conciliatory voice. "Master Drothan has the right to be curious – and he is not the first one… No, my relationship with Lady Trencavel is strictly professional. And anyway, it could hardly be otherwise. Even if the Purple Plague has rather spared me compared to some other extreme cases, I doubt that anyone would find attractive what is hiding behind this mask…"

"Oh, but certain women would find your… _state_ quite exotic, if I may say…" Araklos Drothan sniggered. Vicente was not sure what kind of game the Dark Elf was playing nor if he was really trying to blow the vampire's top, but he was certainly getting on the vampire's nerves.

"I think you should discuss the matter directly with Lady Trencavel, Master Drothan." the vampire replied coolly. "She would answer better than I, questions about her sexual preferences."

"Ah, Vicente! _Here_ you are!"

Saved, Vicente smiled beneath his mask.

The four men turned as one in the direction of the voice. Rivanone Trencavel sailed towards them, radiant in her dark grey and night blue robe. At the sight, Vicente felt his inside melting, but he applied himself to recover his mind quickly. It was not the moment to swoon over the lady who held his heart – especially with that nosy _s'wit_ Drothan around…

"I see you have met Lords Dren and Hlaalu as well as young Master Drothan!" Rivanone cooed in the affected tone she liked to use when in company. "And would you mind telling me what your four are plotting in your corner…?" she beamed coyly at them.

"We were saying to Master Valtieri here it was an incomparable shame such a lovely woman like you remains widowed." Lord Methas said, giving a gallant summary of Drothan's disgusting allusions.

"Ah, but I guess men are a bit weary to marry Lady Rivanone now, given the number of husbands she has buried…" Drothan purred.

Vicente resisted the urge to throw the contents of his cup of wine in the Dark Elf's face, before throwing the Dark Elf out a window. The latter had wanted his remark to be humorous, but again, his tone was full of insinuations and the little smile at the corner of his mouth irked the vampire to the extreme...Vicente tried to remember what he had read on this character account, but nothing he could remember was really worth any kind of attention - and that worrying him more.

However, Rivanone did not seem destabilised by the comment and she nudged the young Dunmer, giggling. "Ah, yes, of course. It's understandable. But don't worry, Master Drothan, I did make sure my late lamented husband was actually _dead_ before they buried him!"

And the bard punctuated her flash of wit with one of her typical crystalline and totally confident laugh. The remark was so cheeky it took the three Dunmer completely aback, and, unable to reply anything, they simply stared at her, jaws dropped.

Vicente resisted the urge to palm his face. One day, he would give his companion and colleague a little lesson on the appropriate use of black humour… Rivanone was relying too much on thinking that nerve could clear up doubts, ignoring that sometimes it only reinforced them…

In this case, though, the moment of unease dissipated quickly when Drothan started to chuckle, then to laugh himself silly along with Rivanone as if she had just said the funniest thing in the world. He was quickly imitated by Lord Dren, and Vicente finally decided himself to join them. Only Lord Hlaalu remained rather unenthusiastic, contenting himself with a small forced smile while his eyes remained cold.

Vicente frowned behind his mask. Like for Drothan, none of the information the assassins had on Lord Methas Hlaalu were particularly interesting, but there was something in Lord Methas Hlaalu's attitude which set the vampire thinking he was more than a mere Dunmer lord on a diplomatic mission… The man standing in front of him was a hardened combatant, Vicente was ready to swear it.

"_Could he be from the Morag Tong…?"_ the vampire thought, trying to stay impassive. After all, the possible infiltration of Morag Tong agents in the Dunmer delegation was the main reason of their presence at Howldeath summit. From what Rivanone had told him, Helseth was playing a double game, feigning good will when he accepted to discuss with the Imperials, but recruiting Morag Tong assassins to make sure the negotiations failed. To be honest, Vicente was not sure where the interest of the Brotherhood lay in making sure the Imperial and the Dunmer found a compromise, but after all, he was not paid to ask such questions. No, his main goal was to find the Morag Tong agents – and eliminate them if necessary…

"_Strange bunch, those three…" _Vicente thought as everybody recovered from their laughing fit. Indeed, what a Hlaalu lord was doing with two Telvanni, and one in a state of disgrace? He promised himself to talk about it to Rivanone later…

"Hey, isn't that Khajiit your servant?" Drothan suddenly asked, pointing at a silhouette trying to slip unnoticed in the hall – without success.

"You are well informed..." Rivanone hissed, her eyes narrowing in annoyance at the sight of J'Ghasta. "Yes, J'Ghasta is our servant, _and he was not supposed to show his face here…!_" Rivanone almost yelled the last part of her sentence to make sure she was heard across the room. Her voice echoed in the hall, and several guests turned toward her – among them J'Ghasta.

The Khajiit's eyes riveted on Vicente and Rivanone and his ears flattened on his head, making him looking like a puppy caught after having done something nasty on the carpet. He tried to smile and to make a little friendly gesture with his hand at his masters but he finally cowered under Rivanone's killing glance.

"Hard to find competent personnel, isn't it?" Dren chuckled as he observed J'Ghasta.

The Khajiit was desperately looking for a way to escape Rivanone's anger, and his salvation came in the form of a little boy arrived here the Gods knew how and who was gesturing frantically to attract J'Ghasta's attention. The Khajiit hesitated but finally followed him, disappearing in one of the perpendicular corridors.

"Is the child part of your staff also?" Dren asked again, sipping his wine with an affected coolness.

Rivanone shook her head.

"I've never seen him before."

"Shame…What a nice little boy!" the Dunmer chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something that strongly offended Vicente and Rivanone. Even the companions of the fat Dunmer looked somewhat embarrassed and tried not to look at each other.

"Yes…" Hlaalu said in a cough. "Oh, Lady Trencavel… You did not tell us if we would have the pleasure to listen to one of your recitals tonight…?"

"Oh no, not tonight, I am afraid!" Rivanone replied enthusiastically, to happy to change of subject. "Lord Saevus has planned a speech, so…"

Rivanone's voice suddenly got covered by someone else's and Sigrid reintegrated her body violently. She blinked and raised her head. Ashar was talking to her – or Sigrid supposed so, because the Khajiit's lips were moving – shaking her by the shoulder. She had packed all her things again and U'bhuti was glaring from Sigrid from the inside of the pack on Ashar's back.

"Whuuut?" Sigrid gargled, blinking and trying not to loose her balance.

"Sorry to interrupt your…" Ashar made a dubitative pout as she looked for the appropriate term. "… meditation, Berthe but we have to go. We can't stay here any longer..."

"Why?" Sigrid asked rather stupidly. A powerful roar coming from the distance answered her. "All right. What was that?" the Breton said in a little voice.

"A pack of Senches hunting…" Ashar explained, looking worried. "Now you understand why I don't want to stay here any longer…?"

"Yes and I approve totally!" Sigrid exclaimed as she clambered to her feet. She still felt extremely tired, drained, but the memory of the terrible big cats mounted by the mercenary was still vivid in her mind.

She did not want to face such monsters against any cost.

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Standing still on the terrace of his apartments, King Sha'ka contemplated the amazing landscape stretching before his eyes. His private balcony offered him an absolutely breath taking view on the city of Torval as well as its surroundings, and the Khajiit lord liked spending a bit of time here in the morning, just to relax...

The maze of Torval's streets meandered in front of him, before they stopped at the ramparts. In the distance, the cloud of dust produced by hundreds of slaves working at the building site rose into the air. The dark-furred Khajiit's eyes fixed upon it, and he let a preoccupied finger running along his lower jaw, his tail winding round his muscular calves nervously.

Raksada assured him the work was progressing well and that the Ultimate Resonator should be ready in less than two weeks. It was actually earlier than initially planned, but in the light of the recent developments, the king was wondering if it would be enough… There was no room for approximations in his plans, the arrival of the Empire emissaries added an uncertain variable in the course of the operations. And if there was something King Sha'ka did not like, it was uncertainty…

Indeed, a man – or rather, cat – of his calibre had not reached his position by leaving anything to chance, and his project of defeating the Empire had been carefully planned and organised for years.

Indeed, all Sha'ka had undertaken those last ten years had been one step on the road to achieving his ultimate objective: the transformation of the doleful army of the South into the fearful regiments they were now, the complete change of the military equipment of his troops –developing the use of large but light shields and short spears – but also of their training as well as of the military strategies – as the Imperial garrisons had found out to their cost.

Of course, such revolution in the Khajiiti concept of warfare had not happened without meeting some resistance…

The king sighed. Why people did not want to understand? Things could have gone smoothly since having to go through a civil war… If only this old fool of Bhek'Iziwe Nowalzi Thenj'Iwe had been a bit less _stubborn_…!

Sha'ka's thought were interrupted by a familiar metallic sound which brought a smile to his face. He did not need to turn around to know that his beloved concubine Naandi was standing behind him…

"You look preoccupied, O Incosi." she announced demurely. "Maybe a bit of company would cheer you up?"

Sha'ka turned around with a kind expression on his face, which would have surprised his detractors, who only saw him some kind of heartless killing machine.

"A king is always worried, Naandi." He said, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her near him. "But no doubt Sha'ka is certainly going to enjoy your presence immensely." he added with a smile as he buried his face in her abundant and soft mane. "But I don't think you have come here only to enjoy my company, am I right?" the king continued as he pushed the Princess away gently to look at her face.

She smiled at him. "No indeed, O King of kings... I came because… I have a favour to ask you." Naandi hesitated.

"There is not much I can refuse you." Sha'ka encouraged her.

The Princess continued to look hesitant, until she finally took the plunge. "Well, I thought a lot during the last few days…Given your power has been recognised by all the ubasis around Elsweyr and that you are going to be crowned Incosi soon…" Naandi bit her lower lip, trying to find the proper words. "Well, I just wonder if you could spare his life now he is not a danger for you anymore…"

Naandi had not named explicitly the potential beneficiary of the favour, but the latter knew too well who she was talking about… Sha'ka's features hardened suddenly at the words and he turned his back to her, crossing his arms behind his back as he let his eyes scanning the landscape again.

"Of all the favours who could ask, this is the only one I can't satisfy…" he commented darkly.

"But…!"

"We discussed that already, Naandi, and my decision on the subject is irrevocable."

The princess's ears flattened on her head and she grabbed him the shoulder, forcing him to face her. "It is unfair, Sha'ka! He doesn't deserve to die! He is so…"

"I know, Naandi." the king interrupted her, freeing his shoulder as gently as possible from Naandi's grip. "But the redemption of Elsweyr requires him to…"

"Killing him won't change anything, O Incosi! Even if you do so, a new one will be born, and even if you kill this one too, there will be another one, things like this occur regularly, continue until the end of times!"

Sha'ka shook his head.

"You are wrong. Eighty lunar eclipses will pass before one of his kind see daylight again. In the meanwhile, many things can happen, and a society can change drastically…"

"Others tried before you, and they all failed!" Naandi protested forcefully.

"They failed because they were not well prepared." Sha'ka replied with, for the first time since the beginning of their argument, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "History will show I was right!"

"History…" Naandi sniggered. "You don't fear it to regard you as cruel because you are extremely clever, do you, Sha'ka?" Naandi commented with a hint of sadness in her voice, quickly replaced by bitterness as her eyes narrowed. "But believe me, Incosi, having _brains_ will not avoid you being considered by future generations as _heartless_."

The king looked at the Princess with an undecipherable expression on his face, before he gave a weary shrug. "Who knows how I will be remembered, Naandi…" he started softly but firmly, his eyes lost in the distance again. "As you said, maybe I will be considered as a depraved ogre whose thirst for conquest knows no limits and who deluged his country with innocent blood, disregarding the most sacred ties of affection, turning father against son, son against brother, in a bloodbath that defies description…" The Khajiit made a pause and his chops curled up in a satisfied smile. "But I prefer to think that enlightened spirits will recognise in me a visionary who did not hesitate to get his hands dirty to lead his people out of the dark ages of superstitions and fear to the place where they belong to – that is to say at the head of the whole nations of Mundus."

"Not so long ago, you still believed hard in those 'superstitions' you now pretend to despise so much, Sha'ka…" Naandi declared softly.

"People change."

"And isn't there anything that can make you change your mind?" Naandi begged him.

"No."

The female Khajiit suddenly looked extremely tired and she slowly let her self collapsed on the ground at the king's feet. "How can you pretend to love me if you are ready to destroy everything which is important in my eyes…?" she whispered with tears in her eyes.

Sha'ka considered silently his pretty concubine with compassion, and with a sigh, helped her to her feet.

"You knew mixing your destiny with mine would require certain sacrifices, Naandi." he said in a low voice, taking her in his arms again. "I thought I had been clear on that…"

"All this is Raksada's fault…" the princess spat bitterly somewhere in Sha'ka's neck. "It's him he who crammed your head with all those nonsense!"

The king rolled his eyes.

"I know you irrevocably loath him, but whatever you may think of Raksada, I always found his advice quite useful. His decisions had never been motivated by personal gain, and…"

The princess looked stunned. How an individual as clever as Sha'ka could be that _blind_ on the true nature of the Dark Elf? But astonishment was soon replaced by anger. She pushed the king from her a bit more roughly than necessary and pointed an angry forefinger at the building site.

"This project of Raksada's? Not motivated by personal gains?! What about the labour force for his project of constructing a weapon to defeat the Empire? He gains at the cost of every one of your victories over other tribes!" Naandi roared. "Khajiiti, working day and nights to satisfy his ambitions – as well as yours!" Her tail slashed the air angrily and she lowered her voice so much she was almost murmuring. "Tell me, Sha'ka… Since when do your plans concerning our people include turning them into slaves…?"

The king's face darkened and for a while, he looked he was about to slap his female companion. But however ruthless Sha'ka was, he was not the kind of men to beat women out of anger, and the female Khajiit raised a fair point.

"I trust Raksada, whether you like it or not." Sha'ka replied abruptly. "You have the right not to like him, but not the right to contest his decisions – nor mine…" he added in a threatening voice, but it did not seem enough to calm down the Princess.

"Raksada corrupts everything he touches!" Naandi yelled. "Even you! Look at yourself, Sha'ka…! He turned the great warrior you were into a common _butcher_!" She stopped, her shoulders moving up and down as she breathed heavily.

Sha'ka was as immobile as a statute, and Naandi realised she went too far.

"I refuse to discuss with you when you are in such a state." the king finally replied coolly. "Go back to calm down in your apartments." His eyes narrowed and a severe expression painted on his face. "And I strongly advise you not to come here again to make a scene. Despite my deep attachment to you, Naandi, there are limits to my patience…"

Naandi's pursued her lips, bitterly submitting to her lord's wish. She was clever enough to know when she had lost, and still shaking in anger, she turned on her heels and left the king's apartments. But she had not said her last word...

"_If he refuses to listen to me,"_ she thought, fighting her urge to burst out in angry tears, _"I will find help somewhere else!"_

(**1**) According to a survey conducted over three trillions E four individuals across the Multiverse. People with shaving habits similar to Lucien's represent one percent, and you really would not like to know about the habits of the left nine percents.

Source: Multiverse Corporation.


	11. The Clash of Civilisations

Chapter 10 –

**Chapter 1****0 – The Clash of Civilisations**

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"All right." Lucien said in between mouthfuls of the excellent spiced-gumbo-with-rice he was eating, using only three fingers of his left hand according to the Khajiit custom. "Let me sum things up just to make sure I understand everything correctly…"

The Imperial paused, looking a bit hesitant, then finally shrugged and helped himself to more gumbo. The bad news he had just received had not so much as shaken his appetite. The least that could be said was that Lucien was doing justice to Elsweyr cuisine, under the amused glances of the other guests. The Imperial had met them all during the big "party" of the previous night, all of them high-ranking Khajiit from the SyndiCat though now far less wasted than during previous, owing to a more moderated amount of alcohol.

First was S'bu, an exotic female Tojay in charge of the "entertainment department", whose revealing clothing was quite indicative of the nature of the 'entertainment' her department actually provided.

Settled comfortable next to her came old Thabo – who was, in fact, so _old_ Lucien found himself unable to identify to which breed he actually was – boss of the "exportation" branch.

Next to him was Mudli, a taciturn dark-furred Suthay whose exact job remained a mystery to Lucien, as did the exact meanings of the ritual scars decorating his face. They certainly did not indicate that Mudli ever won the prize of "Mr. Nice Guy".

Presiding the lunch was Fog Marley himself, who, Lucien gathered - and somehow managed to remember - from the previous night, was one of the top authorities of the SyndiCat, as well as J'Ghasta's best friend dating back from the time when they were both still wearing nappies.

"From what I understand," Lucien started, laboriously peeling a prawn he had carefully fished out of the sauce, "after several days without any news from the _Sophie_ – which was illegally transporting very important freight for the SyndiCat – you finally received information that the Captain of the_ Sophie_, its crew and passengers were all sighted in Leyawiin, on board another boat ...called the _Black Pea_?"

Fog Marley beamed at the Imperial from the other side of the table.

"Aya, man. You catch on quick."

Sprawling comfortably on a cushion in typical feline way, the early hour notwithstanding, the Dagi Rastajiit was already flying high on Skooma, smoking it through a strange contraption the Imperial identified as a water pipe – also known as _narguile_ in Ta'agra. Normally, this type of pipe were used by the desert tribes in the northern part of Elsweyr, however it seemed Fog Marley accepted all possible means – however exotic and alien they were to the local culture – to satisfy his vice.

"Right." Lucien tried to smile, but one could easily see he clearly lacked proper motivation to do so. "From there, because of the material damages the _Black Pea_ suffered due to a magical storm..." Lucien paused, wincing at the memory "...the Captain decided to abandon his passengers, telling to the most impatient ones to 'reach Senchal by their own means'. Have I missed anything?"

It was a good thing the food was good, Lucien thought, taking another bite, because everything else certainly wasn't. Lamentably, not even the excellent cuisine could make up for the amount of bad news so far. Was it possible for the day to get any worse? He wasn't sure he wanted to know…

"Yep." Fog Marley nodded.

"No more information on who they were, which ones left, or what they actually did once they were on their own?" Lucien didn't think of himself as a hopeful, optimistic individual, but this was one of those times when he wished dearly for some proof of good luck in the world.

He was sadly disappointed.

"Nope. Not our business." Fog Marley shrugged.

Lucien's smile became an absolute grimace as he shot the sour look towards J'Ghasta, who ignored it spectacularly.

"Good. I hope you realise this means J'Ghasta and I, who, as you know, are looking for someone aboard of the _Sophie_, came all the darn way down from Cyrodiil, through storm, sea, jungle, and man-eating insects to Senchal for _nothing…_!" A headache bloomed spectacularly behind Lucien's eyes, the question of '_why me'_ pounding in his temples.

Fog Marley did not reply immediately, electing to simply blow a perfect circle of bluish smoke towards the ceiling. Lucien's exasperation remained nothing more to him than a concentration of bad vibes, all of which were easily cancelled out by the Skooma. Fog Marley wondered privately if the Imperial might not benefit from a little Skooma himself.

"Sorry to hear that, man." the Khajiit drawled, watching his smoke ring dissipate.

"…and that the person we are after can be now _anywhere _in Elsweyr..." Lucien continued, his tone growing terse with frustration, not lessened at all by Fog Marley's apparent disregard for the severity of the situation. Never mind that he, Lucien, had not yet mentioned the missing person in question was Sigrid Trencavel and Prince Charming's spawn. Just the _thought_ was enough to amplify his headache.

"You shouldn't let yourself get so worked up," S'bu spoke up for the first time. "You'll give yourself a migraine." Smirking she twitched her tail thoughtfully, as several other members of the SyndiCat nodded in agreement.

"Or that person can actually be anywhere in Tamriel." Fog Marley corrected happily, nodding in agreement to S'bu's words. "Yep yep."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Lucien demanded, ignoring the migraines comment.

"I'm afraid not." The Rastajiit replied, chewing the nozzle of his _narguile_. "Bad vibes, bad Karma, man…!"

"_Karma..."_ Lucien thought bitterly. The Rastajiits had incorporated into their strange philosophy of life, partial and ancient Akaviri beliefs. _Karma, yeah, right_… If such a thing _really_ existed Lucien certainly had completely screwed up in his former life and, given he was not doing much better in this one, it did not bode well for the next life either…

The Imperial sighed in annoyance, chewing his food darkly for a while before turning to J'Ghasta, who sat beside him, absent-mindedly picking his teeth clean with one of his claws.

Lucien suspected Fog Marley and J'Ghasta had shared a large part of the contents of the pipe while the Imperial wandered around the Rastajiit's immense house, for half an hour searching for them, before finally finding them sitting in the garden, on cushions, around a table full of victuals, exotic fruit juices, and Skooma of course - though in lesser quantities than the night before.

"Well. We were _completely_ mistaken and have lost a lot of precious time. Isn't that fantastic…?" Lucien growled sullenly to J'Ghasta. "Do you have any idea of what are we supposed to do now?"

The Khajiit looked at him blankly before lazily returning his attention to the new dishes Fog's servants were bringing to the table. The cat people were highly fond of their sweets. Their cuisine was renowned for the large range of desserts it provided, and Fog's table was a perfect example of this.

"Hmmm, what about having a go at those wonderful desserts, now you're done with the main meal?" he asked, wondering – and not for the first time – if Lucien's disposition towards bad moods wasn't due to a lack of sugar in his diet. What was it people said about sugar helping keep the attitude sweet? In that case, Lucien would probably need to pack away as much as possible for the next ten years. J'Ghasta smiled wickedly as Lucien's frustration swelled and broke, like a wave at sea.

So predictable.

"_J'Ghasta_!"

The latter rolled his eyes, heaving a heavy sigh which sent his whiskers a quiver.

"All right, all right, no need to yell…To be honest, I don't have a clue yet. I_ am_, however, trying to work out a cunning plan…there. Are you happy now?"

"Great." Lucien snapped irritably. "If you manage to get something clever without making your soaked-with-Skooma brain explode, I would be happy, yes – would you mind letting me know what you find so amusing, _Mister_ Marley?" Lucien asked stiffly of a giggling Fog.

"You two are so funny, arguing all the time like an old married couple…" the Rastajiit replied still grinning toothily. "Reminds me of J'Ghasta, Ya'Tirrje, and I when we were kids… We argued like that too!"

The words painted a very large and very stupid smile across J'Ghasta's face.

"Oh yeah!" he exclaimed happily. "Do you remember when you and I went to…"

J'Ghasta launched himself into the narration of one of his childhood stories to the great pleasure of most of the guests, but to Lucien's annoyance. Mudli did not seem very excited at the prospect either, but apparently there were not many things able to intrigue him, so…

Lucien returned his attention to his friend, still in full flow of his anecdote, accompanied by many comic gestures, while his audience roared with laugher. The Imperial suddenly realised he didn't know much – next to nothing, in fact - about J'Ghasta's childhood in Elsweyr, and the apparent familiarity the Khajiit assassin expressed toward this weirdo Marley left him feeling extremely bitter. The two kept exchanging reminiscences from which Lucien was obviously excluded and he did not like to see his personal beliefs about being J'Ghasta's_ exclusive_ friend on Nirn shattered to pieces.

"Sorry to interrupt the stroll down memory lane, but would you mind coming back to the current issue, please?" Lucien asked brusquely, more acidly than he had wished while interrupting J'Ghasta in the middle of his story. "We still have a problem to solve, remember?"

"Oh, er… yeah, sorry about that." J'Ghasta coughed, trying to remember where they were before the interruption. "Yeah, so, er… We were talking about the girl Lucien and I are looking for…"

"But who's that girl you are looking for _exactly_?" S'bu asked. "And I still don't really understand why you two are after her. We know she is pregnant but…"

"Long story…" Lucien cut her off darkly. "As we said before, she is working for us and left without permission, taking with her something very important…"

"The baby?" the Old Thabo ventured in a quavering voice, his dimming eyes fixed on Lucien.

"Yeah, the baby, but above all, Lucien's pride." J'Ghasta announced, glancing over at his friend with a mischievous smile. "They had a little argument before she left. So as a parting gift, she kicked Lucien in the nuts - and obviously he's turned it into a personal issue …"

"Ooh! Poor baby!" S'bu crooned, an attitude marred by the wicked grin covering her features, and the chuckled that followed.

"Oh? Don't tell me…She kicked you in the nuts because _you_ got her pregnant?" Thabo cackled, beaming at the Imperial. "Funny, usually, this is the kind of stuff that usually happens to J'Ghasta…"

Lucien almost choked on his indignation, as well as on the fabulous vanilla pudding he was eating.

"_I did not __get_ _her pregnant!_" he protested vehemently.

"Exactly, Thabo!" J'Ghasta boomed, ignoring Lucien's outrage outburst. "No one can hide anything from a cunning old Khajiit like you, hey?"

"_But_ _I did not…!_"

Lucien stopped mid mortified rant. Under the table, J'Ghasta pinched his thigh. _Hard_. The Imperial opened his mouth to protest, but the look the Khajiit shot him dissuaded him to do so. Their gaze just met briefly, and J'Ghasta's message was clear: _"let them think you're the father…"_

Obviously, Lucien's psyche was dead set against assuming the role of 'father' for _Martin's _child, but the position J'Ghasta was choosing on the matter was more than wise. By making the others believe he had gotten Trencavel pregnant, they could avoid tedious explanations on who the father _actually_ was, and thus why Lucien and J'Ghasta were so eager to get the baby back…

"All right, I admit it." The Imperial sighed, resigning himself. "I got her pregnant, but I was not really ready to assume my… paternity."

"Tsss, men…" S'bu whispered, shooting Lucien a reproachful look. The latter felt his face burning with shame – even if he had not real reasons to. "And what's the name of this poor girl?" S'bu asked archly.

"Doesn't really matter as I am certain she is travelling under a false identity." J'Ghasta intervened cleverly. Even if Senchal was extremely far from Cyrodiil, the name of "Sigrid Trencavel" would certainly cause agitation and require explanation, something J'Ghasta wanted to avoid. "However, I think her physical description will be enough to find her."

The guests around the table did not look convinced.

"Er, sorry man, but I seriously doubt it will…" Fog said carefully.

J'Ghasta looked Aetheriusward.

"Don't tell me the number of pregnant women travelling around the savannah with big, talking, _magic_ _swords_ are legions…!"

"Actually, finding her is not really the problem, J'Ghasta." Thabo said in a soft voice. "But finding people willing to cover the country currently searching for her _is_."

"It's true it's not the best time to go looking all over the country for someone …it's quite dangerous." S'bu whispered, suddenly very ill-at-ease.

The Khajiits around the table, unwilling to discuss the subject further, fell uncomfortably silent. Apparently, no one counted on J'Ghasta's curiosity, or his persistence.

"All right. Why don't you explain me what is going on here, exactly?" he asked, drumming his finger impatiently on the table. "You just keep making understatements about 'the current tricky situation', but…"

"There're a lot of things – a lot of bad things – happening recently, man…" Fog interrupted him carefully, making a little worried sucking noise with his mouth. "To be honest, you two could not have come here at a worse time… It is a damn mess, believe me, and the hundreds of corpses you found in the jungle, floating down the Quin'rawl River, are just a nice little preview…" he added darkly, drawing on his pipe once more.

"Would it kill you to give me a straight answer, Fog?" J'Ghasta asked sarcastically.

The Dagi shook his head negatively, his dreadlocks dancing around him like the legs of a gigantic and hairy spider.

"I don't do poli_tr_... politics, J'Ghasta. You know that." the Rastajiit corrected himself when J'Ghasta shot him a disapproving look. "This is Ya'Tirrje's _chasse gardée_, and he insisted on the fact he wanted to explain everything to you tomorrow and _in person_."

J'Ghasta's eyes narrowed.

"And what does _that_ mean exactly…?" He growled softly.

"You'll see…" Fog Marley added with a conspiratorial air. "But I think he has something to propose to you… Some kind of… _deal_."

J'Ghasta features darkened more before he exchanged a brief glance with Lucien. It was clear the Imperial did not like the turn the conversation had taken either.

"I am not here to make 'deals', Fog." J'Ghasta warned firmly.

"Well, I'm afraid neither Ya'Tirrje nor I will be able to help you then." The Rastajiit replied with a dramatic sigh, before his face took on a cunning expression. "You know how it is – nothing's free." He added, calling upon his guests as witnesses, and they all nodded in approval.

J'Ghasta's eyes narrowed further, the hair on his neck beginning to stand up on end in response to his irritation.

"Are you telling _me_, you are trying to bargain with the help you have to give an old friend according to our ancestral laws of hospitality…?"

This time, it was Fog's turn to narrow his eyes. J'Ghasta's insinuations were definitely not to his taste, and Lucien, however unfamiliar he was to Elsweyr customs, knew that Khajiits valued hospitality above anything else.

"You know perfectly well that the M'Thetho, the corpus of Elsweyrian Laws of Hospitality as defined by the Clan Mothers, only obliged me to provide you food, shelter and clothes." the Rastajiit growled in as patient a voice as he could manage, but a hint of exasperation was nevertheless palpable. "They never implied providing the guest with the logistic aid to find a woman knocked up by one of his friends…"

"And anyway, J'Ghasta," a deep and throaty voice started, "you should not complain given you technically are not even eligible to the M'Thetho…"

All heads turned in the direction of the voice, apparently Mudli's. The dark furred Khajiit had finally deigned to speak.

"What a pleasure to finally hear the sound of your voice…" Lucien said sardonically, coming to J'Ghasta's aid.

"Er, Lucien…" Fog started with an embarrassed cough. "Mudli is an important member of the SyndiCat, from the…"

"… legal department." Mudli ended with a large, rather frightening smile. Lucien glared at him. He had never seen so many golden teeth in a single mouth. "I'm in charge of the trickiest litigations…"

The suspension at the end of his sentence and his repeated euphemisms did not leave much doubt on what Mudli's area of expertise was, and Lucien understood why Marley waited for the most dramatic moment to reveal its exact nature.

"I see." The Imperial whispered. Given neither the Morag Tong nor the Brotherhood was very active in Elsweyr – the tribal and political systems currently in force never favoured their development – he had wondered if the SyndiCat had a personal group of professional killers, or if they appealed to the services of independent assassins. Now he had his answer. "And what make you say J'Ghasta is not entitled to benefit from Fog's hospitality?"

The Imperial had made no effort to hide the antipathy in his voice. It was clear Mudli did not like him much and Lucien decided he did not like Mudli either.

"Oh? Your friend never told you?" Mudli asked, sounding falsely surprised, turning toward J'Ghasta with an expression of pure malevolence.

"I am still waiting for your answer, Mudli…" Lucien said coldly.

"And why don't you ask J'Ghasta directly, Isihambi…?"Mudli retorted, the words so sickly sweet they couldn't be anything but an insult.

_Isihambi_… The word floated in the air. Lucien frowned. He was no idea what it meant, but given the reaction of the guests around the room, and the way Mudli said it, it was far from friendly. The unpleasant look Mudli was giving him only reinforced his certainty and his dislike for the Khajiit.

"Before we continue this extremely interesting conversation, I would like to clarify something…" J'Ghasta started softly, breaking the silence. He was drinking his fruit juice in little sips with his eyes closed, adopting with that a relax attitude, but the deformed goblet in his paw indicated it was just a posture. "Whatever you may have against me, it doesn't entitle anyone to call Lucien 'stranger' - is that clear?"

The general uneasiness became even more palpable, making Lucien certain "Isihambi" meant a bit more than just "stranger". S'bu and her two companions were making great effort to keep neutral composures. Only Fog Marley openly showed his disapproval of Mudli's behaviour.

"And why can I not call him whatever I like? He is _human_ – much less than Khajiit." Mudli replied in a calm tone as well, but shooting Lucien a long look full of contempt. "And he is _your_ friend, _igwala_. Not _mine_."

"Mudli…" Fog warned.

But it was too late. S'bu uttered a little scream as J'Ghasta leapt to his feet and grabbed Mudli by the front of his shirt. As the perfectly trained assassin he was, the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood attacked silently, the bristling fur along his backbone and his bared teeth plainly told how irritated he was.

Lucien swore under his breath, eyes scanning the room for a weapon. If things turned sour, J'Ghasta would certainly need help, but Lucien had come downstairs unarmed – and now cursed himself for a fool! To think he hadn't even thought to bring the razor he shaved with along…

"Say it again, give me a reason to see if I can behead you with just one of my claws?" J'Ghasta hissed, theatrically extending the claw of his forefinger, putting it firmly against Mudli's jugular.

But the later showed no fear, only contempt, gave his aggressor J'Ghasta a sarcastic sneer full of golden teeth.

"_Igwala_." he hissed challengingly.

"You asked for it." J'Ghasta shrugged, his lips curling back from his teeth.

"J'Ghasta, let him go!" Marley snapped before the immanent harm became reality. Now sitting up straight, his green eyes gleamed with anger. "No fights – or murders – under my roof, do you understand me?" The Dagi then turned toward the Master Assassin. "As for you Mudli, you'll be kind enough not to insult my guest!"

"Why not?" Mudli snarled. "Have all of you forgotten what he's done – or rather, _has not done_? Why are you all so tolerant of this prodigal son?"

Mudli's words provoked another uneasy silence. If all the guests disapproved Mudli's attitude, they were not rushing to J'Ghasta's aid either, and even Marley gave the impression he was hesitating, unsure of the conduct to adopt.

"If you have a score to settle with me, Mudli, maybe we can we can do something about it outside." J'Ghasta hissed. "But don't insult my friend, got it?"

Lucien judged it was the opportune time to intervene. He got up walking toward the two antagonists.

"It's all right J'Ghasta." he said, putting an appeasing hand on the Khajiit forearm forcing him to slowly release Mudli. He then turned toward the Khajiit assassin, giving him an all too innocent grin, at odds with the sparkle of malevolent humour in his eyes. "If it pleases Mister "Tic-Tac-Toe Face" here, he can call me whatever he likes, I don't mind…"

Mudli hissed angrily at the Imperial before spitting between Lucien's feet. J'Ghasta was about to lunge for the Khajiit's throat again, but Lucien stood between them. Not that he particularly wanted to spare Mudli's life – on the contrary, he felt like slitting the Khajiit's throat himself at the moment – but something was telling him that murdering Mudli would be extremely counter-productive.

"For your information, _filthy __ape_," Mudli hissed, his muzzle an inch from Lucien's nose, "the scars I wear on my face represent the number of fools like you I skinned alive for having the impudence to insult me!"

Without leaving Lucien the opportunity to reply, he stormed out of the garden.

"Er… I do apologise." Fog said, breaking the silence which settled over the assembly after Mudli's theatrical departure. "Mudli radiates bad vibes, and he can be… quite moody."

"Moody Mudli…" Thabo chuckled, but Lucien did not find it funny at all.

"_Moody?_" he exclaimed, both sarcastic and indignant as he sat back to his place. "That's the euphemism of the Era! I don't know what you heard, but to me, it was clear this guy just threatened to turn me into a bedside rug!"

S'bu prowled over to pat Lucien gently on the shoulder, though the way she did it, one might have thought she was soothing a rankled housecat.

"Don't take it badly, Lucien." the female Tojay said consolingly. "Mudli bears J'Ghasta a grudge…" she added, smiling at J'Ghasta, who replied by a little embarrassed cough. "And anyway, he can't assassinate anyone without a clear mandate from the highest authorities of the SyndiCat..."

"The highest authorities…" Lucien stole a sideway look at Fog who was once again under the hold of Skooma, smoking as he chatted with a butterfly flying above his head. "And that is supposed to put my mind at _rest_?"

His remark triggered general hilarity the atmosphere palpably relaxing in a cloud of giggles and blue smoke from Fog's _narguile_. Even J'Ghasta joined the laughter, but a deep cease of worry still ran across his forehead. He shot Lucien a quick look before averting his eyes from the Imperial when he realised the latter was observing him.

Lucien was ready to bet it had something to do with what Mudli called him… _Igwala_…_no, not_ iguana_, that was some sort of lizard..._The word rang a bell, but Lucien's comprehension of Ta'agra, even if quite good, remained rather limited in regards to the current slang. The assassin promised himself to clarify the situation with his friend later, when they had a moment alone…

"All right, it's not I'm tired of your company," Thabo said suddenly, yawning and stretching, "but I have a lot on my plate, so I'd better go now."

Saying this, the old Khajiit suddenly grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, bracing himself as violent spasms shook him roughly, as though he were choking.

"Someone do something!" Lucien exclaimed, jumping to his feet to come to Thabo's rescue. "He's choking!"

S'bu grabbed him by his wrist and forced him gently to sit back down.

"No, no, it's all right, Lucien. Everything is perfectly normal." she purred, patting his shoulder reassuringly as he watched in shock.

Thabo continued in this fashion for a few more seconds, then, to Lucien's greatest horror, he spat something on the table. The thing rolled, stopping near a plate of fruit. The Imperial glared gaped at it – the thing the Khajiit had spat, not the plate of fruits – mesmerised.

"Aaaah!" Thabo said with satisfaction, patting his sternum several times. "Much better now!"

"What is _that_?" Lucien demanded with some disgust. He had recovered from his shock, and his deep voice seemed to boom in the heavy silence which fell in the wake of Thabo's...purge.

"Well, as you can see, it's a hairball." S'bu explained kindly, earning a glare of disapproval from Lucien.

"I'm not blind, S'bu. My question was more orientated on towards its presence on the _lunch table_!" Lucien announced with a forced calm, gesturing to the hairball with one finger.

All the heads turned toward Marley.

"Fog?" S'bu asked him sweetly. "I think Lucien needs a little explanation."

"No way…" Fog Marley started, looking highly uncomfortable. "Make J'Ghasta do it!"

"_You're_ the host, _you_ explain." S'bu repeated in a tone aimed at putting an end to any discussion on the subject.

Either the Rastajiit did not hear the subtle hint, or he was simply ignoring it.

"But…" he protested. "It's Thabo who spat the…all right, _all right_! No need to get nasty!" he added quickly when S'bu softly threatened to take his _narguile_ from him. Sighing heavily with a little throat-clearing cough Fog, turned toward the Imperial, who was still glaring at the hairball as if daring it to jump at his face. "You see, Lucien, this is a…_tradition_." Fog explained, choosing his word very cautiously. "As you may know, Khajiits are very clean creatures so, before eating, we always clean ourselves with great care, and this is why we conclude a good meal by… spitting hairballs."

The Rastajiit tried to give an encouraging smile to Lucien, but the latter was staring at him with eyes like saucers.

"You 'conclude' meals by _spitting hairballs_? You _spit_ hair _hairballs_? Like _cats_?" the Imperial repeated dazedly, his hands gripping the edge of the table nervously as his mind slowly worked out all implications of Fog's revelations.

"Yep."

"You mean… You… _Khajiits actually lick themselves to wash_?!"

It was hard to tell who was the more embarrassed – the Khajiits or the imperial. As such, there was another uneasy pause, even more uncomfortable than during the incident with Mudli.

"But I always thought it was some kind of racist joke!" Lucien continued, his eyes moving from one Khajiit to another, apparently hoping one of them would show signs of agreement, or start laughing, letting him know it was just a joke. "You know, like the one about Khajiits licking their butt to forget the taste of their cuisine…!" he offered hopefully.

"Well, I'm afraid that if the rumours about our cuisine are completely groundless – as you may have noticed – the ones about Khajiiti hygiene are not …" Thabo replied, looking up at the sky to avoid meeting the eyes of any of the guests, especially not Lucien's.

"But…!" Lucien protested, a little helplessly. This was too much. _Too much_ for one trip.

"Aaaah, stop making such a fuss, Lucien!" J'Ghasta growled, annoyed. "It's no dirtier than you lazing around for hours in the filthy water of your bath!"

Lucien watched J'Ghasta as if he was seeing him for the first time.

"But...Because…but... _You do that too_?!" the momentarily inarticulate Speaker managed to spit out.

J'Ghasta rolled his eyes, looking at his Khajiit friends for support. The latter were too busy not trying to laugh to be of any help to him.

"But…I've known you for years and I _never_ saw you doing that!" Lucien exclaimed in a very hurt tone. He looked like as if J'Ghasta had betrayed him in the most odious way. "To think I used to let you drink in my beer mug…!"

Lucien shuddered at the thought, and then shuddered again at the full range of ramifications. It was so..._unsanitary._

"Well, I never spat hairballs in front of you in Cyrodiil because it is not the custom over there! And concerning the 'licking' - you don't take a bath in front of everybody, do you?" J'Ghasta gave a nervous cough. The contained hilarity of the rest of the assembly was contagious. "Same for Khajiits. We don't lick ourselves in front of people, it's considered bad manners."

"But spitting a hairball in front of them is perfectly fine, right?" Lucien replied bleakly.

"You catch on well, my little Lulu!" J'Ghasta beamed. He hadn't seen this particular expression on Lucien's face in years.

"Er, sorry, but I feel like it's my turn…" Fog said with an uneasy smile, before starting the same performance as Thabo.

Lucien shot a last horrified look at the scene before he buried his face in his hands. He could hear J'Ghasta giggling by him, over the sound of hacking and retching.

"_O __sweet Night Mother…"_ Lucien thought, addressing a short but fervent prayer at his unholy patron. He was in a foreign country he did not know much about, looking for a pregnant woman lost in its wild immensity and surrounded by a bunch of maniacs who drank Skooma like milk _and_ _licked their butts to wash_.

"I want to go back to Cyrodiil…" he whined. "Just let me go home..."

7777777777777777

In Torval, Raksada's mood was not better than Lucien.

Pacing up and down the platform dominating the Great Stairs leading to the Kraal of Torval, the Dark Elf had had waited far longer than a man of his quality and importance could actually tolerate – especially in that heat and with all those flies swarming around his head.

"But what are they doing…? Did they get lost or…?!" the Dunmer asked moodily to one of the Khajiit servants of his retinue who was holding the canopy, to protect the Dark Elf from the sun. The servant cowered a bit under Raksada's angry red gaze.

"I… don't know, O ubasi."

"Of course you don't know, you moron…" Raksada replied between gritted teeth. "As for you, get a move on!" he yelled at the other servant standing behind him with a fan. "Can't you see I'm roasting here?!"

The poor Khajiit nodded anxiously as he intensified his fanning. It would take more than a simple palm fan to cool down the seething, sweating Dunmer…

Raksada was not angry. Raksada was utterly _furious_. Earlier in the afternoon, he received a message from his scouts announcing _their_ imminent arrival in Torval. Sadly, in the Khajiits' sense of time, "imminent" could mean "now", "in three hours" or "next month", which explained why the High Councillor had waited, kept hanging around for more than an hour…

Fortunately, a cloud of dust coming from the other side of the Great Square seemed to indicate Raksada's ordeal was over…

A black cart pulled by two black horses shot up from the Square at breakneck speed, causing the poor pedestrians to flee in panic. The carriage made a sharp turn to stop at the bottom of the stairs in a screeching of wheels and clatter hoofs.

Raksada straightened his clothes quickly and told the rest of his retinue to do the same before turning toward the cart again.

"_Finally…"_ he thought, his palms growing moist with impatience. _"Let's see the face of the enemy…"_

The door of the cart opened by itself creaking in a somewhat theatrical way …

…and a small, fluffy, white dog jumped out, looking about irritably. Raksada frowned a little at the sight, while behind him a worried murmur ran through the Khajiit soldiers in his retinue. The mumbles made the little dog froze and its eyes riveted on the cat people.

"Whif?" the dog wheezed.

In harmonious unison, the Khajiit soldiers and servants held their breath as time suddenly stopped. In both the cats' and dog's brains, small little atavistic and metaphoric cogs put themselves into motion, producing a series of ancestral pictures of dogs chasing cats – of cats fleeing before dogs.

The little dog started to growl, as, almost simultaneously, the Khajiits hissed, retreating slowly.

Raksada – who was obviously neither a dog nor a cat – frowned in puzzlement at the strange behaviour of the Khajiits.

"What are you…?" he began.

Suddenly, it was chaos. The dog started running toward the cats, barking fiercely and drooling abundantly, while the Khajiits bolted, taking to their heels, screaming and meowing in fear.

"Come back here, you bunch of morons!" Raksada yelled at his retinue, fleeing in panic toward the row of small, stunted trees planted along the Great Stairs – a perfectly normal feline reaction when faced with the canine arch-nemesis. "It's _just_ a _dog_ – _come back here immediately, or else…!_"

But the Khajiits did not listen to their master as they pushed and shoved at each other, desperate to be the first to hoist themselves into the safety of the branches. His face distorted with rage, Raksada was about to throw a curse at them when a cheerful voice suddenly boomed behind him.

"Hello there! Nice welcoming committee! Very entertaining!"

At the words, Raksada spun round to find himself facing…_nothing_. He blinked frowning in confusion. Maybe he had stayed too long in the sun…?

"I'm down here, sir!"

The Dark Elf lowered his eyes and found himself facing…_something_ which immediately made him remember fondly the _nothing_ he had faced a few seconds ago.

The creature standing in front of him was completely spherical, dressed in a number of flashy colours which immediately gave the Dunmer a headache. Two little but clever blue eyes examined Raksada from a large, friendly face drowning in a sea of fat. The Dark Elf wondered for a moment he was not facing one of those Akaviri statutes representing a divinity called "Happy Puddha"…

The face of the creature suddenly painted with concern.

"Are you all right, lad? You look a bit funny…"

The Dark elf blinked again. Behind the amazingly fat man – who Raksada highly suspected was Master Ontus Vanin – materialised a hooded, masked figure as skinny as Vanin was obese. The effect was rather comical, the differences in the two personages reminding Raksada of a giant cup-and-ball game. All was missing was the string to link them to one another…

"I think our host is perfectly fine, Ontus." the soft but pleasant voice of Count Hassildor announced from under the hood. "But I guess your very personal_...manners_ may have surprised him slightly…"

Raksada stole a glance at the Count. Not much of his face was visible, apart from the red eyes fixed upon the Dunmer from over the scarf wrapped about the lower part of his face.

Raksada's eyes and the Count's met briefly, and the Dunmer regretted it immediately. He had the terrifying impression of walking under a dark and never-ending archway.

"Greetings, Lord Hassildor, Master Vanin." Raksada said, bowing quickly before the two men to hide his embarrassment. His put his right hand on his chest while he extended the other, palm facing the sky, in the traditional Khajiiti way of saluting. "I am ubasi Raksada, Incosi Sha'ka's chief advisor and your guide for the few days you are going to pass in our compa…"

"Nice to meet you!" Vanin interrupted the Dark Elf, grabbing his extended hand and shaking it so enthusiastically Raksada winced in pain when the bones of his shoulder threatened to dislocate. "Let's forget about the bowing and scraping! Let's just get some nice refreshments before we die of the heat!"

Raksada tried to curb his growing irritation. Dealing with those two Imperial emissaries was already turning into a pain in the neck, he really did _not_ need to deal with their rudeness. This Vanin was seriously getting on his nerves… And what about the Count, who did not even had a polite word for him! Raksada expected much better etiquette from Janus Hassildor… But an individual like the High Councillor, highly experienced in politics, had turned the concealment of his true feelings into an art.

"I am at your service, gentlemen…" the Dark Elf gestured elegantly toward the kraal. "This way, please…"

"Furball!" Hassildor called pedantically as he and Vanin followed Raksada under the gigantic archway leading to the palace.

The little dog hesitated a bit, barked one last time at the perched Khajiits before trotting to his master's side.

"By Mannimarco's rotting under-trews!" Vanin exclaimed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as they walked along a long corridor priced with small windows which gave on a small internal garden. "The temperature is much more bearable here! Do you use this incredible new system called 'environmental-conditioning', which uses Flame and Frost Atronachs to produce the desired temperature in a room…?"

"No." Raksada replied flatly. "The coolness of the palace is the result of its architecture…"

"Oh really? Incredible!"

Vanin continued to babble about the outstanding performance and creativity of Elsweyrian architecture, but Raksada did not pay attention. He could feel the glance of Hassildor's eyes burning the back of his neck. He would have given his left arm to have a glimpse of what the Count was thinking at the moment. What did he already knew? He certainly saw the building site of the Ultimate Resonator on his way to Torval… What had he been able to deduce – or conclude – from it?

Raksada tried to return to serenity again by thinking most of his own current uncertainties were shared by the Count. The latter, clever as he was, had certainly already determined Raksada was a powerful opponent… The Dunmer smirked a little.

"_Soon you will discover how powerful I am, Hassildor. And we will see if you remain silent when I will pull out your heart of your chest…"_

The fates of the two emissaries were already sealed. Raksada would eliminate them – but not before determining what they knew and whether they could be of use to him. The High Councillor was very economical at heart and he loathed wastefulness…

The Dunmer suddenly froze and Vanin stopped speaking. A group of Khajiits were striding toward them. Raksada swore mentally as he recognised the slender, charming silhouette in the lead.

_Naandi…_

The Princess and her maids stopped a few metres away from the High Councillor and his two companions in a concert of jangling jewellery before greeting them with the traditional Elsweyrian salute. Ontus Vanin, visibly deeply impressed by the Princess' grace, bowed deeply. Even Furball did not dare to bark at her. But Janus Hassildor, not as emotive as his companion, merely gave a quick nod.

"Princess Naandi…" Raksada announced curtly. "What can I do for you?"

The female Khajiit straightened up, her pretty hazel eyes boring into Raksada's.

"Oh, nothing, ubasi…" she cooed with a shy smile, stealing a glance at Hassildor and Vanin. "I was just going for a walk outside when I saw you and your guests. I just wanted to know if you wanted me to install them in their quarters…"

The female Khajiit punctuated her sentence with a provocative winked at two Imperial emissaries. If Hassildor remained impassive, Vanin became very red in the face causing Raksada to frown. That dirty little tart of Naandi was in full-seduction mode and she never did that for free. She had something in mind, but what…?

"Thank you for your offer, Princess," Raksada started in a dry, warning tone, "but I don't think it will be necess…"

"But you have so many things to do, O Raksada…" Naandi interrupted him, opening two wide and falsely innocent eyes. "I would be so delighted to install our guests while you take care of more urgent affairs of State…"

"Oh, that is very considerate of you Princess!" Vanin exclaimed enthusiastically. It was obvious the old mage was much more enthusiastic about being escorted by the pretty female Khajiit than by the rather gloomy looking Dunmer. As for Hassildor, he remained silent under his hood, his eyes moving slowly back and forth from Raksada and Naandi, as if reading between the lines. Which he was.

"But I don't have many things to do!" the Dark Elf protested, before turning slightly red in the face – or rather purple, given his bluish complexion. "No, no… I mean, I _have_, but taking care of our important guests is part of my duties!"

"As you wish O ubasi…" Naandi replied softly. A thin smile tinged with irony materialised on her chops. "I am only here to serve." She bowed again.

This time, Raksada was completely taken aback. He was expecting Naandi to insist and to put him in a very embarrassing situation, but now she was quietly giving up. It was so unlike her… What was the meaning of all this? Decided not to give Naandi an occasion to change her mind and attack again, Raksada put a prompt end to the discussion.

"Well, thank you again for your generous offer, Princess, and now, if you will excuse us…"

Without further ado, he dumped Naandi there, quickly followed by Vanin, who shot the Princess an apologetic smile and the Count, whose eyes lingered thoughtfully on the Princess.

Naandi kept bowing with a chastened air as Raksada and the two Imperials passed by her, but when she was sure they could not see her, a satisfied smile stretched her lips. Raksada wouldn't know what hit him...

7777777777777777

Ma'Dat was under stress and living – by his own admission – one of the most important, riveting, intense,_ vital_ moments of his life. Hopping up and down with anxiety, his attention fixed on the scene before his eyes, nervously tearing the banner with the colours of his team painted on it to bits with his sharp teeth.

"Go, man! Go! Yeah, that's good!" he screamed at one of the players on the ground who was running toward the opposing goal. Then, his face suddenly froze in horror and he stood up, yelling at the top of his voice along with his fellow supporters around him. "No! Wait! _Wait_! _Nooooo_!"

It was too late. The striker failed to see one of the defenders running in the blind spot on his right. The latter managed to get the balloon – an inflated bladder – from him and started to run in the opposite direction.

Appalled yells come from half of the spectators, the other half cheering and applauding the defender's action.

"By Fadomai, it's really bad luck!" Ma'Dat called upon his neighbours as witnesses, among whose was counting an Imperial who did not seem to share the general enthusiasm, absent-mindedly stuffing his mouth with peanuts, a big, colourful parrot perched on his shoulder. "Did you see that? He was almost there! _Almost_…!" the Khajiit's voice broke with emotion.

"Yes. Too bad, really…" commented the Imperial laconically, self-consciously smoothing the few hairs escaping from his ponytail, which was frizzing a bit from the humidity.

Ma'Dat considered the man silently, pouting thoughtfully. There were three things which were very striking about him.

Firstly, the funny parrot perched on his shoulder, which made him look like a pirate. Secondly, he was the only non-Khajiit present in the terraces of the stadium and thirdly, he was also the only one not jumping around excitedly, opting instead to remain seated, his eyes absently following the players running around on the field.

"Yeah bad luck…" the Khajiit replied, shaking his head extreme disappointment on his face. "But there will be other opportunities."

"If you say so…" he held up a peanut, which the parrot plucked from his fingers, squawking around it before crunching away happily.

Ma'Dat frowned. The Imperial's apparent lack of enthusiasm puzzled him greatly. How could one stay so indifferent when attending the final of the League's Cup, especially when the two teams – Khajiits United and Heartpool – were historic even _bitter_ rivals? But the Khajiit conceded he had not met many Imperials in his life, maybe they always looked so unconcerned…

"It is your first _dibeke_ match, right?" Ma'Dat asked, trying to strike up a conversation with the strange man, in order to satisfy his curiosity.

The first answer Ma'Dat got was a big sigh accompanied by a feeble smile. If the Khajiit had paid the least bit of attention, he would have noticed that smile concentrated all the despair in the world. However, completely carried away by his own boundless enthusiasm, Ma'Dat did not notice his neighbour was not eager to chat.

"Oh yes..."

"An unforgettable experience isn't it?" the Khajiit asked again, beaming as he waved a paw at the terraces packed full of excited Khajiits, most of whom face paints in the colours of their respective team, beating enthusiastically on drums. "The music, the people, _the atmosphere_…!"

"Unbelievable indeed. I am going to cherish the memory for the rest of my life."

Ma'Dat who, like many Khajiit, was a rather easy-going person, was also completely sarcasm-proof which explained why he burst out laughing. "That's the spirit, _bwala_!" he exclaimed, slapping the Imperial hard across the back, using the Ta'agra word for "friend". "Tell me, what's your name?"

"Lucien… Lucien Lachance." The Imperial replied unwillingly, his lungs rattled from a gesture that would have saved his life had he choked on a peanut at just that moment. The gesture also unsettle Polly, who squawked her displeasure before settling again, stealing one of his peanuts.

Ma'Dat beamed gregariously.

"Hey, doesn't 'Lachance' mean 'luck' in Bretonian? You a lucky man, then?"

"Sometimes, I _really_ do wonder…" Lucien mumbled darkly.

"Well, I can confirm you're lucky, _bwala_, because you're sitting by the most knowledgeable Khajiit concerning _dibeke_!" Ma'Dat declared, banging proudly on his chest with one fist.

"Am I?" Lucien drawled as Polly dipped back into the peanuts.

"Yeah, and I am going to explain you everything you need to know about _dibeke_! Just leave it to me – you'll leave here an expert!"

"Oh, lucky me indeed…I can hardly wait."

Grinning, the Khajiit launched into a complex explanation, Lucien fell back to his usual tactic when death by boredom loomed so ominously. He let his thoughts slip into neutral, completely ignoring the now-inane flood of chatter, nodding here and there of grunting his agreement.

'_By Sithis and Night Mother unholy union, what am I _doing_ in this mess?'_ he whined mentally. Well, he had to admit it _was_ partly his fault…

After lunch, an apologizing Fog Marley abandoned his guests to go back to his duties. Before leaving, however, he had proposed Lucien and J'Ghasta attend a game of "_dibeke_", Elsweyr's national sport. Like all drug dealers in Senchal and, more generally, like most of the Khajiit with a minimum of financial power, Fog owned his own _dibeke_ team, "Khajiit United", which was playing in the match that very afternoon.

Never having attended a game and always open to opportunities to improve his cultural familiarity, Lucien found the idea interesting. In addition, the team was missing a player and J'Ghasta – who, to Lucien's surprise, appeared to be a rabid _dibeke_ supporter as well as a competent player – enthusiastically decided to replace the missing Khajiit, so...

That was why Lucien found himself surrounded by crazy supporters with their face painted in the colours of their tribe – no, not tribe, _team_ – who sang, danced, played the drums, drank, yelled – often doing all of these things at once… Lucien jumped and almost collapsed on the supporters sitting on the bench in front of him when a Khajiit standing behind him blew in a huge horn, producing an ear splitting noise to which enthusiastic roars answered.

"Hey, don't be nervous like that!" Ma'Dat giggled as Lucien swore under his breath trying his best to calm a panicking Polly, who was driving her claws in his shoulder. "It is just the signal to start singing United Khajiit anthem!"

And without further explanation, the Khajiit stood up and put his right paw on his heart.

"_Glory! Glory K-United." _Lucien rolled his eyes, plugging his ears with his fingers. An anthem…! What kind of nuts made up an _anthem_ for a sports team…?! Gogron, he thought sourly, would love it.

"…_as the Reds go marching up up up…!"_ the Khajiits around him roared, making Lucien drive his forefingers further into his ear canals, trying to salvage his hearing. Why did they have to _yell _all the time?

But it seemed "yelling" was the heart of _dibeke_. From what Lucien gathered so far, this sport consisted mainly of shouting at the top of one's voice encouragements to one team, insults to the referee and or the supporters of the other team, loud criticisms of the tactical choices of the coaches capped off by the repeated screaming of mysterious expressions like "corner kick", "offside" or "throw in". Lucien initially thought they were some kind of highly intelligent insults thrown at the other team, but apparently they were directly linked to the rules of the game – rules of which Lucien found himself woefully ignorant, thus he remained painfully confused.

"…_you gonna hear the Khajiits that sing with pride!"_

Suddenly, everything went totally silent. Lucien concluded gratefully that his neighbours had finished their serenade. He took his fingers hesitantly out of his ears, turning toward Ma'Dat, sitting beside him again, face was with tears of pride.

"Wasn't it great, all those people sharing the same feeling at the same time, all their passion focused on the same object?" Ma'Dat asked, his voice quavering with emotion, whiskers trembling as he sniffled.

Lucien did his best not to look blasé. Clearly surrounded by maniacs, he deemed it prudent not to provoke them. Sithis only knew how they would react if frustrated or annoyed…

"Er…Poignant, yes." The Imperial replied carefully as one of the players executed a series of complicated passes before a member of the opposite team – J'Ghasta – stole the ball taking advantage of the situation to viciously kick his opponent in the shinbone. Lucien did not need to see J'Ghasta's mouth to know the Khajiit probably conveyed some charming sentiment to his rival player, probably involving some female in said player's life. The roar from the hopping-in-pain opposition hinted this was the case – no one yelled that loud over a bruised shin. No one.

"Woo-_ah_, J'-Gha-_sta_!" the supporters around Lucien roared their approval as the opposing supporters hurled abuse at him - or more precisely at his mother…Lucien smiled – well, it _was_ the proper comeback. Amazing how these things remained constant between Khajiit and humans – probably between all races. The fist would start flying at first opportunity, if this kept it.

Polly squawked, prompting Lucien to hold up the rest of the bag of peanuts.

J'Ghasta was running toward the opposing goal, but Lucien never saw if he managed to capitalize on his action because Ma'Dat chose that exact moment to nudge him. "Oooh, look out, _bwala_! The Ola!"

Lucien whined inwardly. Oh no, not the Ola… _Not again_.

Another thing Lucien had trouble understanding. How could people find amusement in jumping on to their feet, raising their arms in the air and yelling "Ola!" or "Yay!" before sitting down again?

"It's coming… It's coming…" Ma'Dat whispered excitedly, as he observed the wave running along the crowd. "It's there! O-_la_!" he screamed, jumping up.

"Yay…" Lucien muttered unimpressed, feebly imitating Ma'Dat.

"Isn't it_ great_?" the Khajiit chuckled, nudging Lucien again.

The Imperial could not muster the motivation to answer. All this beat everything he had ever seen in categories of 'stupidity' and 'futility', really. He understood perfectly well the tension and passion of the Arena spectators when enthralled by a to the death match. After all, in the Arena, _lives_ were at stake. Not the case with _dibeke_, and sothe appeal remained a mystery to him. A bunch of Khajiits running after a bloated bladder of… _of what, by the way?_

Suddenly, the referee raised one arm and blew sharply on his tiny whistle. The players stopped immediately and everybody on the field and on the terraces started to break up.

"Hey, what's going on?" Lucien asked Ma'Dat, who was about to leave.

"End of the first half, _bwala_! Now, I strongly advise you to lay in big supplies of beer and food for the second half, or to try to get a pawgraph from one of the players. See ya in a few minutes!"

Lucien blinked.

"Asking players for a paw_-what_?" he asked, but Ma'Dat had already disappeared in the crowd. The Imperial sighed, got up and turned toward Polly.

"Right. Let's go and see if we can find J'Ghasta…"

"Burp!" the parrot replied, half-dozing as she laboriously digested the kilo of peanuts she had gulped down.

Lucien made difficult progress through the cheerful crowd, but finally managed to get near the bench where the players were resting… Lucien frowned. Resting? Not really – Lucien now understood what Ma'Dat meant by "pawgraphs".

Hysterical fans buzzed around the players, holding up small wooden boxes containing what looked like a sponge soaked with black ink. The players were dabbing their paws in the box before putting inky paws on whatever their supporters presented to them, leaving a nice black print of their palm on it…

In the mess, Lucien finally managed to catch sight of J'Ghasta, who was extremely busy pawgraphing both hands at very strategic places, the tight-fitting shirt worn by a young, comely female Khajiit.

"Hi there! How are things?" J'Ghasta exclaimed when he spotted Lucien standing by him. Without waiting for an answer, J'Ghasta splashed his right paw on the first sponge dripping with ink he could reach and stuck it right in the middle of the Imperial's green shirt.

"Tadaaa! You're pawgraphed, mate!" J'Ghasta exclaimed happily, shaking his inky paw in the air, sending a cascade of ink droplets all over the place – and all over Lucien as well.

Lucien sighed heavily, looking at the damage to his clothed, wreaked by J'Ghasta's enthusiastic pawgraph.

"You know, you've just ruined one of the only wearable items of Fog's wardrobe with your big dirty paw full of fingers…" he announced darkly.

"Yeah, but you now have the pawgraph of one of the best players of the team!" J'Ghasta exclaimed proudly, flexing for the benefit of the crowd. "So, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing much." Lucien replied with a false air of collectedness. "I'm enjoying an exotic moment of complete hysteria with the locals." He stopped and his lips curled up in a mocking yet very amused smile. "J'Ghasta, are you aware that you Khajiits are just a bunch of savages driven mad by the heat of this wretched climate…?"

J'Ghasta beamed.

"You just tell me that to please me, don't you…?

Lucien rolled his eyes but continued to smile. It had been a while since he had seen J'Ghasta so obviously delighted. Well, J'Ghasta always_ looked_ delighted. He belonged to that category of people who, whatever the difficulties maybe, always tried to see the bright side of things - as long as it did not imply water or stuffy environments… Nevertheless, since they had got into Elsweyr, the Khajiit seemed to be on cloud nine, and Lucien felt extremely miserable, knowing he was about to spoil everything.

"I hope you are enjoying this moment, Lucien." J'Ghasta said, grabbing his friend by one shoulder and guiding him in to a quieter spot, while Polly flew away to perch in a nearby tree. "Not everyone can get tickets to attend the final match of the _Dibeke_ League Cup!"

"Yeah, I'm ecstatic…" Lucien sniggered. "Didn't you see me jumping up and down on the bench with my torso daubed with the colours of Khajiits United while I was bellowing out the team's anthem, whirling my shirt above my head?"

"You're just being_ extremely_ sarcastic, aren't you?"

Lucien opened two wide and innocent golden-brown eyes.

"Me? Never!"

J'Ghasta smiled and tried to clean his full-of-ink paws in the red dust on the ground, without much success. "All right, I admit we Khajiits are a bit over the edge sometimes, especially in our mother country, but hey! This is home!"

"You're glad to be back in Elsweyr, aren't you?" Lucien replied in a soft voice making J'Ghasta frown slightly. A pleasant-sounding Lucien never meant good news…

"Yeah…?" the Khajiit replied carefully. "You know, I really don't like when you look at me that way… You have something to ask me, don't you?"

Lucien did not reply a long pause stretched, during which the two assassins simply regarded at each other. Then J'Ghasta sighed heavily, looking away. The joyful expression on his face giving way to a much darker one. Although Lucien felt immensely sorry – but he also felt he did not have much choice.

"I knew you would ask me about the 'Igwala' thing, sooner or later…" the Khajiit said, shaking his head in an attitude of disappointment. "You really should have let me smash that bastard's face…"

"You know it wouldn't have changed anything." Lucien interrupted him. "Besides, given how organised you are, I guess you've already prepared an appropriate answer for me…?"

J'Ghasta's ears flattened against his head miserably.

"Well, let me ask you a question… Do you remember what I told you when you asked why I left Elsweyr?"

"Yes. You said you decided to leave because the traditions and customs were far too suffocating and you refused to be turned into a superstitious sheep like the rest of your people." J'Ghasta had put it a little less tactfully at the time, but Lucien felt this was no time for tactlessness.

"Well, that's not completely accurate…" J'Ghasta responded shiftily, looking at his feet to avoid Lucien's gaze.

The latter raised an eyebrow. "'Not completely accurate…' Is that a euphemism to make me understand you _lied_?" he asked patiently.

The Khajiit clenched his fists nervously, his expression speaking for itself.

"Well… Not...not _exactly_…Let's just say I didn't tell the _entire_ truth…"

"Stop beating around the bush, J'Ghasta." Lucien announced flatly. "You're better off telling me now rather than waiting for us to be in trouble to spill the beans…"

J'Ghasta sighed at the unassailable pertinence of the argument.

"All right… Have you heard of the Khajiit ritual which consists in the offering of the mane to… the Mane?"

"The _Manecision_? Of course! It's only the best known custom, the most famous and popular of your folkloric thingies…"

"Not that folkloric, I'm afraid." J'Ghasta corrected, keeping his voice down, hidden under the cover of the chatter of players and fans. "You see, when a young Khajiit is about to reach adulthood, he has to offer the symbol of it to the highest and most respected authority in the country – the Mane. It's compulsory, no one can pretend to be a full adult if he hasn't done it."

There was a pause. Behind them could be heard the hysterical screams of the fans who were trying to get more pawgraphs from the players.

"I think I am starting to understand…" Lucien started slowly, frowning. "You refused to go, didn't you?"

J'Ghasta shifted uncomfortably. "Things would have _probably_ been better if I had simply _not gone_..." he sighed. "No, Lucien. I went to Torval to perform the ritual, before the Mane's kraal, in front of the whole host of the ubasis – the lords, if you prefer – of Elsweyr and the Mane himself…"

At the words, Lucien's fertile imagination took over, a series of pictures forming in his mind. He could see a large and dusty expanse, a colourful, excited crowd surrounding a large group of nervous, jittery Khajiit teenagers. And, standing in the middle of that expanse a group of young Khajiits waiting for their turn to be recognized as adults – among whom a minus-thirty-years J'Ghasta observed the scene, sneering openly.

"When my turn came," the Khajiit continued, narrating over Lucien's daydreaming, "I did like the others, walked toward the Mane, took the ritual blade near the consecrated Altar. Once I was there, I threw the dagger on the ground and proudly refused to cut and burn my mane, to subject myself to the authority of someone whose spiritual sovereignty over his people relied solely on old superstitions."

"Ah…" Lucien commented neutrally. Knowing J'Ghasta as he did, he doubted he formulated his reasons so rationally, or politely…

"As you can imagine, my ah..._defiance..._created something of an uproar …" J'Ghasta continued, twisting his hands nervously as he remembered the events. "But the Mane calmed down the crowd and calmly declared it was my right to do and think so. Nevertheless, customs were the customs, and if I refused to comply with them, there was a price to pay…"

"And the price was…?" Lucien prompted.

J'Ghasta sighed, scratching his head uncomfortably.

"… to fight and defeat the Champion of the Mane. If I lost, I was dishonoured, exiled for the rest of my life. If I won, I could stay in the country and be considered a 'full" Khajiit." J'Ghasta gave another huge sigh. "Of course, I was expecting this challenge, and I didn't go there unprepared…"

"But you lost…" Lucien whispered.

"Oh, I more than lost, Lucien," J'Ghasta laughed bitterly, "I got the beating of my _life_, right in front of the assembled lords of Elsweyr and everyone else. The price for my arrogance." J'Ghasta replied bitterly. "I left Torval limping under the jeers of the crowd. And I never went back...until now."

The Khajiit fell silent while, in the distance the screams of the supporters returning to the terraces grew wilder, if quieter with the distance to the stands. The match was about to start again…

"Nothing to say?" J'Ghasta asked timidly as Lucien remained silent.

"Well, I'm not sure _what_ to say…" the Imperial replied unsteadily, scratching his perfectly shaved chin. "You deliberately hid part of the story, and your little omission could cost us a lot… But, in a sense, I feel kind of relieved. As I was expecting something more… _dramatic_."

"More _dramatic_?!" J'Ghasta exclaimed, reacting as if he had been stung. "I got _humiliated_ and _banished_! Isn't that dramatic enough for you?"

"It is." Lucien replied as calmly as he could. "But on the other hand, however hard it may have been for you personally, this banishment wound up a kind of blessing, didn't it…? I would even dare to suggest it was what you were looking for…"

J'Ghasta pouted angrily and looked away.

Lucien smiled inwardly because he knew J'Ghasta had no argument there.

"You don't realise…" the Khajiit growled between gritted teeth. "Do you know the translation for 'Igwala' in Imperial?"

"I must admit my complete ignorance on the subject." Lucien shrugged. It certainly wasn't a compliment.

"_That's because there isn't one_!" J'Ghasta spat, his expression shifting from angry to bitter. "Can you think of a word in your language meaning 'traitor', 'coward' and 'irresponsible idiot' _all at once_?"

"Oh, I can think of a few, actually. Bellamont, Arquen, Uvan..."

"I am _not_ in the mood to _joke_, Lucien!" J'Ghasta snarled, bristling.

The later rolled his eyes. "I don't really understand why you make such a fuss… You _wanted_ to _leave_ Elsweyr! You always said living here was only about respecting customs and being very religious." Lucien continued, ramming the point home. "And we both now that keeping on well-trodden paths and pretending to be pious are not your favourite pastimes…"

"All this coming from you…" J'Ghasta muttered.

"Yes, coming from me." the Imperial retorted with a sarcastic smile. "Come on, J'Ghasta! We all make mistakes, by Sithis! Scourging yourself about what you did is pointless! The Dark Brotherhood is _full_ of people with nasty little secrets and sins of their youth – and _you _know _I _know what I'm talking about…" he added with a touch of bitterness.

J'Ghasta glared thoughtfully at Lucien for a while.

"Don't try to outstare me, J'Ghasta… I am right and you know it." Lucien announced grimly, unblinking.

At the words, the Khajiit blinked. He gave a resigned sigh while Lucien burst out laughing.

"I hate it when you're right." J'Ghasta announced gloomily. "I wanted to leave anyway, but not like _this_… I didn't lose the fight on purpose, you know… The only fight I ever lost..."

Another uneasy silence ensued, even if the tension diminished slightly. Then, the Imperial shrugged. "As I said, everybody makes mistake…To be honest, what worries me much is not the past - but the present…"

J'Ghasta raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Well, you got banished, right?" Lucien explained patiently, if a little patronizingly. "And everybody around here seems to be aware of that fact. But apart from nasty comments, no one seems to really care that you're a - what – 'not really a Khajiit' outlaw? You're even participating in a public event like _dibeke_! Don't you find that just a _little_ unsettling…?" Not to mention highly suspicious.

"Well…yeah, the thought _did_ cross my mind, somewhere between putting on the uniform and getting out on the field." J'Ghasta winced. "But don't ask me for an explanation, because I don't have one. To be honest with you, I was expecting Ya'Tirrje to sell me to the Mane's henchmen – as you may have hinted, thanks to the very pleasant Mudli, the Laws of Hospitality are not _supposed_ to be applied to criminals like me…" J'Ghasta tapped a clawed finger again this jaw thoughtfully. The more he thought about the situation the more he found it not to his liking. Too good to be true.

"And do you have any idea why your good old mate Ya'Tirrje hasn't done it yet?"

"No." J'Ghasta replied, shaking his head. "Well, it's not a 'categorical' no… I guess if he hasn't done it yet, it must be because of that 'deal' Fog mentioned."

"So, _basically_, we have to wait until we meet Ya'Tirrje before we know _anything_…"

"_Basically_, yes…" J'Ghasta was about to expound his argument, but screams from the terraces of the stadium interrupted him.

"The supporters are getting impatient." Lucien observed. "You'd better go back to meet your team or they may destroy the stadium."

J'Ghasta nodded and was about to break into a run toward the field when Lucien called him in his back.

"Oh, J'Ghasta?"

"Yeah?"

"Before you go, I wanted you to know…" the Imperial started in a very causal tone. "Your lost fight and the banishment thingy absolutely don't change my opinion on the fact you remain a great assassin, a great Listener – and a great friend."

J'Ghasta looked rather taken aback by Lucien's remark before his chops curled up in a very sarcastic smile.

"All right… Is that the 'charged-with-emotion' moment of the sequence?"

"I think so…" Lucien replied in the same neutral voice. "And before you answer me 'thank you, Lucien!' with tears of happiness and break my ribs with one of your bear hugs, I _would_ like to know… _What_ is the problem with Mudli exactly?"

A mischievous materialised on the Khajiit's face.

"Mudli? Oh, nothing, really. I just slept with his fiancée the night before their union…" Lucien's mouth made a perfect shocked "O". J'Ghasta snickered. Sometimes Lucien really did act like a kid.

"…_and _his two sisters _and_ their _mother_." He ended, adding satisfaction and slyness to malice. "And shut your mouth before you swallow some kind of bug, Lucien …"

"But… You truly are a bastard, you know that…?" the Imperial exclaimed, looking truly indignant. "I am about an inch from feeling sorry for Mudli!"

"Naaah, not close enough for me to worry then." J'Ghasta replied with a satisfied smile. "So, before I go, you still want that bear hug, or what?"

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Once again, the shadows of the past whirled around Sigrid as she forgot about the present, uniting her thoughts to the ones contained in the datadice.

Two solitary figures were pacing up and down the ramparts of the castle of Howldeath, under the light of Masser and Secunda, while the now familiar high-pitched voice of the young Lucien Lachance rose in the air, chirruping a semi-constant stream of questions and a running commentary to correspond with them.

"And can you jump high, like cats? Because Big Tommy had a cat, you know, and his cat jumped _veeeeery_ high. And it_ always_ lands back on its feet – well, not anymore, because Big Tommy threw it over the ramparts of the castle once and…"

"Fascinating…"

J'Ghasta – whose mind Sigrid was occupying at the moment – was followed the boy sedately, sometimes puncturing the chatter with monosyllabic comments like "yeah", "right", "oh". Or, when he was really motivated, "fascinating". It was a very helpful technique he had learned from his master Vicente Valtieri and at the moment, the Khajiit was using it to great extend, both to express a fake interest in the conversation but also and above all to hide his amazement.

He was observing Lucien, walking in front of him, excitedly gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. Ye gods… This boy was incredible. Apart from Vicente, who, as a three hundred years-old vampire had many interesting things to say – well, "interesting" in _his_ opinion – the Khajiit had not met anyone who talked that much before, especially someone _that_ young …

Lucien stopped so unexpectedly J'Ghasta almost bumped into him.

"J'Ghasta?" the little boy asked, turning toward the Khajiit and presenting him his little face over which was painted a very embarrassed expression.

"Yeah?"

"Er, sorry to ask you but… Could you do_ it _again? Please?" The question was accompanied by a toothy grin.

J'Ghasta rolled his eyes. But Lucien was looking at him with the finest set of hopeful puppy eyes the Khajiit had ever seen so, for the sixteenth time that evening, with a dramatic flourish, the Khajiit drew his claws out, provoking exited squeals from Lucien.

"This is so cool!" the boy exclaimed, clapping his hands. "I wish I could do that!"

"Yeah, everybody wishes…"

Lucien did not seem to notice the weariness in J'Ghasta's voice as, mouth open, he admired the sharp claws gleaming in the light of the moons.

It seemed that Lucien was completely fascinated by the rather exotic creature J'Ghasta was in his eyes. The child had bombarded the Khajiit with questions the whole evening, wanted to know everything about his kind: where they lived, what they eat – J'Ghasta had been happy to give more details to Lucien on that particular point, especially after having been offered cat dry food by the boy when he had told him was hungry – and of course, if Khajiit could land back on their paws…

J'Ghasta was convinced before then gith was over, he'd hear how the boy wanted to be a Khajiit when he grew up. An ambitious plan, but wholly ludicrous.

J'Ghasta had been initially extremely annoyed by this flood of silly questions. Like every teenager in the company of a young kid, J'Ghasta tended to see them as the ultimate source of irritation – right after parents. But also like every teenager in the company of a young kid, he secretly felt flattered by the interest bordering on hero-worship. The Khajiit founded it somewhat rewarding, and Sithis knew he needed that kind of comfort at the moment…

Since J'Ghasta had been recruited by Speaker Uvani almost a year ago, his life comprised of a series of bawling outs, of reprimands which had seriously shaken his youthful enthusiasm about entering the very secretive and daydream-embellished Dark Brotherhood…

That old son-of-a-bitch of Uvani never gave J'Ghasta a contract, did not care about his training but kept making him cleaning the commons – especially the latrines…

Hence why the Khajiit cherished great hopes when Speaker Trencavel, annoyed by the fact J'Ghasta's great talents remained rather unexploited, took him under her wing.

His illusions shattered very quickly.

Of course, contrary to Uvani, Rivanone took J'Ghasta's training very seriously – too seriously in the teenager's opinion – and Vicente was both a great teacher and friend. However the fact remained J'Ghasta _still_ had not carried out a single contract, and then he was constantly being yelled at, Master Rivanone never pleased with _anything_ he did…

J'Ghasta yawned widely. The sky was clear and Howldeath was very silent. The party in the castle had ended about an hour ago and everybody had gone to bed, including the guards, because apart from Lucien and himself, the ramparts were empty. Well, _seemed_ to be empty, because the Khajiiti assassin's well-trained eyes had sported a furtive shadow moving on the opposite ramparts…Vicente Valtieri probably out for a night-time stroll, probably searching for information useful to their mission – as well as a little snack…

J'Ghasta yawned again – a bit more loudly this time. He was really starting to get tired. The journey to Howldeath had been particularly exhausting and he _still_ had to do his report to for Speaker Trencavel – after, of course, being yelled at for having disobeyed her order not to show up at the reception – before he could even think about going to bed. But Lucien was still talking, and talking and talking, and J'Ghasta had no idea how to stop the kid's verbal logorrhoea…

_The kid…_The Khajiit's face took on a very sly expression. He had just found the perfect excuse…"Tell me, squirt…" J'Ghasta interrupted Lucien's voluble monologue. "Shouldn't you be in bed at this time of the night? Your mother must be worried…"

Lucien shot a blank look at the Khajiit before understanding hit him.

"Naaah..." he replied with a careless shrug. "She died when I was still a baby, so she's not going to worry much, believe me."

J'Ghasta frowned a little. The answer did not suit his plan at all. First, he had to find another excuse now, and second, he had the feeling they were now started on another long conversational topic…

"Ah. Indeed." This was all he found to say, hoping the obvious indifference in his tone would discourage Lucien to discuss the subject further. Big mistake! It was clearly not enough of a hint for the boy, who glared at the Khajiit for a while, his little lips pursued, apparently expecting something else.

"You're not going tell me you're sorry?" the boy finally inquired when he realised J'Ghasta was not going to add anything.

"Er… Excuse me, but what should I be sorry about…?" J'Ghasta asked awkwardly.

"About my mother's _death_." Lucien replied, sounding a little annoyed at the Khajiit's lack of comprehension. "_Usually_, when I tell people my mother is _dead_, they look all uncomfortable and say they're sorry and that it's very sad and…"

J'Ghasta shot Lucien a blank look. "Well, are _you_ sad about it? Because, you'll excuse me, but _you_ don't seem particularly upset about it at the moment…" J'Ghasta pointed out practically.

The boy opened his mouth to reply before shutting it, frowning because of concentration and puzzlement. Obviously he'd never thought of it _that_ way. "Well, er… I don't know…" he finally admitted, scratching his head. "People _say_ it is, but I never experienced having a mum, so I can't say if I regret it or not…"

"You see? If you don't know yourself if you find it sad, why should a stranger like me?" J'Ghasta observed, nodding sententiously. "In addition, why on Nirn should I be sorry? I didn't kill her!"

"Yeah… Right…" Lucien admitted reluctantly, his face still crinkled in deep thought.

Now, the little boy looked decidedly irritated, making J'Ghasta regret taking so harsh a track with him. The last thing the Khajiit wanted was annoy such a great source of information, so he decided to show more sympathy while cursing himself inwardly, knowing it would to prolong the discussion furthermore.

"You know Lucien, it is not _that_ good to have a mom…" the Khajiit said a bit more kindly. "And I know what I am talking about…" he added, frowning.

"_You_ have a _mom_?" The eyes went saucer-wide.

"Yeah, and eight sisters too, all older than me - and it sucks hard." J'Ghasta added bitterly. "But tell me, what happened to your mother?"

"Oh, Father Tiberius, the priest of the parish of Howldeath, told me she went to pick flowers one day...right in a grizzly's _mouth._ And that the grizzly didn't really appreciate it…" Lucien said matter of factly, before he stopped frowning at the Khajiit who was trying hard not to burst out laughing.

"Why are you laughing?" the boy asked, his tone surprisingly more full of curiosity than of anger.

"Nevermind…" J'Ghasta coughed and tried to become serious again. "So, your mum is dead, eaten by a grizzly, all right. But what about you father? Don't tell me he went picking flowers too…"

Lucien covered his mouth with his hands and chuckled. The Khajiit's suggestion seemed to amuse him to the extreme. "No, my dad doesn't pick up flowers. I don't think he likes them much, and he is too busy ruling the castle anyway."

It took J'Ghasta ten good seconds to unravel the meaning of the information. "Ruling the castle…You mean… Lord Saevus is your _father_?!" How could a class of his own bastard wind up with a kid like this one?

"Yeah!" Lucien nodded enthusiastically, his little chest puffing out with pride. "Lots of people think I look like him… What do you think?"

The boy turned his face right and left in the light of the torches for J'Ghasta to judge the resemblance. However, it was another problem occupying his attention.

"Hang on a second… I thought lord Saevus' son was… _dead?_" he asked as delicately as he could.

At the words, Lucien's face suddenly became impenetrable. "Oh, you're talking about Corvus. Yeah, he was dad's son too…"

"'Dad's son too'…?" the Khajiit asked, repeating Lucien's very curious formulation.

"Corvus and I are – well, _were_ brothers, but we didn't have the same mother."

Understanding struck J'Ghasta like a sock full of wet sand and he cursed himself for being so slow on the uptake. Of course! Lucien was the _illegitimate_ child of Lord Saevus and one of his mistresses – very likely a Breton called Lachance – while Corvus was the son of the ex-legionnaire's wife, Lydia Agylica….

The Khajiit let off a mental, appreciative whistle. J'Ghasta was not sure if this was only interesting gossip or if it could prove useful in the execution of his mission, but what really mattered first was to work out if the boy was really telling the truth about his lineage…

"You know, I was with Corvus when he drowned." Lucien continued in a voice he tried to keep neutral but which shook, despite his best efforts.

"Ah?" J'Ghasta's bit his lower lip, looking once more for an appropriate answer to give the kid. Obviously, Lucien had a natural knack at making rather destabilizing comments…

"Yeah. I saw him sinking in the water of the lake…" the boy carried on. "I tried to help him, but I couldn't, he was too heavy." Lucien stopped and gulped. "Father said he wished I'd drowned rather than Corvus…" With this terrible pronouncement, his voice died and a heavy silence fell on the ramparts of the castle.

A freezing breeze started to blow and J'Ghasta shivered, both from cold and from a bad feeling in his guts. Lucien's confession left him feeling ill-at-ease. Actually, Howldeath itself was making him ill-at-ease.

It looked fine during the daytime, but now everything was dark and silent. It was like a lead curtain had fallen over the small town. The colourful hangings in the streets Howldeath radiated sorrow and fear…

J'Ghasta was still scanning the surroundings as he was looking for an appropriate answer, when his eyes suddenly spotted some strange glows in the distance.

"Hey, what are these lights over there?" he asked, pointing to the anomaly.

"Lights?" Lucien frowned, looking in the direction the Khajiit was pointing. "Oh yeah, I see them!" The boy's expression became very dark and he clenched his little fist in anger. "It must be those filthy Dunmer again, trying to steal out lands! They multiplied the incursions on our territory lately. Father said they try to put us under pressure because of the negotiations…"

It was obvious the words were not his own, and J'Ghasta couldn't help but wonder how much, exactly, the boy heard. Even more interesting: how much did the boy hear that he wasn't supposed to…?

"And what is that rocky outcrop on the right?"

Lucien shrugged. "Not much. Just a bunch of old ruins called Sundercliff Wat…"

Lucien did not finish his sentence. A long howl arose, splitting the air. A terrifying scream of anguish and despair which made the Khajiit's soul freeze – as well as Sigrid's.

Once more, the thoughts contained in the datadice vanished and the Breton found herself sitting on the ground of one of the caverns dug at the bottom of the slope of the Kilim'Djaro where she and her companions were staying the night.

"_What was that… scream?"_ she asked mentally to Clairvoix, trying to clear her head, ears straining in case the sound split the night again.

Despite the fact she was not in J'Ghasta's thoughts anymore, she was still filled with the same unease and fear the Khajiit had experienced when he heard the scream. Goose pimples erupted all over the body and her hands shook slightly.

"_No idea. It was so creepy it could give _me_ nightmares, but given I don't sleep…"_ The sword gave Sigrid a mental frown. _"Are you all right? You look really pale…"_

"_I'm fine."_ she replied wearily. _"It must be the exhaustion of the day…"_

"… _and the exciting revelations we just got."_ Clairvoix ended. _"Lachance, the illegitimate son of petty nobleman. Interesting…"_

"_Is it, really?"_ Sigrid asked, hoping to discourage this chat. She didn't expect Clairvoix to take the hint, and it didn't.

"_Well, at least, he has something in common with Martin…"_ the sword chuckled.

Sigrid was about to tell Clairvoix to give the subject a rest, but she put an abrupt end to her conversation with the sword when she realised Ashar was watching at them. The Khajiit, who was busy changing U'bhuti's nappies by the fire, had stopped and was peering curiously at the datadice in Sigrid's hand.

"Yes, Ashar?" the Breton sighed. After what she had just experienced, she was definitely not feeling up to chatting, but explaining Ashar the reasons of her reluctance to do so would have been too complicated…and threatened to make her think along a path she wanted to avoid if she could. It was hard enough reconciling the little boy, eyes all agog with the bastard she knew now.

"Sorry to interrupt you, but I would like to know… What is this thing you have? I've never seen anything like it." Ashar cocked her head curiously.

"Oh, that? It is a magic cube," Sigrid explained, trying to find a satisfactory explanation while not expounding upon the true nature of the datadice. "A cube containing memories of loved ones who are no more…" Sigrid swallowed hard.

Ashar watched at the little cube in awe, her golden eyes gleaming with admiration and something close to envy. Sigrid curbed her urge to hide the datadice from the Khajiit's sight. Ashar showed a great deal of interest to everything magical – too much interest, in Sigrid's opinion.

"This little thing contains memories? How is such a miracle possible?"

Sigrid laughed hollowly, close her hand on the cube, putting it back in a pocket of her shirt.

"Magic, Ashar." She answered with a shrug, an amused look on the face. "Don't ask me more about it – I don't really know. I'm not extremely competent on the subject…" Hopefully _that _would stop the talks, maybe even long enough for Sigrid to get a little sleep. Roughing it while pregnant was hardly easy, and highly uncomfortable. 

The Khajiit sighed, the gleam of envy disappearing, replaced almost immediately by something like sourness, or maybe sadness, Sigrid was not sure.

"You are lucky to have this to remind you of those you lost…" Ashar said softly.

"You… lost someone?" The words were out before Sigrid could stop them.

"As you may have noticed, the country is more or less at war - and war often means death… Many deaths…" Ashar replied bitterly. "And to answer your question, yes, I have lost all my family and friends…" The Khajiit did not look back up, her expression grim, making her look much older.

Sigrid felt a pinch sharp pang of sympathy, quickly suffocated by the mistrust she maintained toward the Khajiit.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ashar."

The latter shrugged with attempted indifference and finished changing U'bhuti before she put him back on his feet.

The toddler took a series of rather shaky steps before he collapsed onto his backside and started crawling on the ground, amused and enthusiastic babbling gushing from him in a stream, particularly when he bumped in his old accomplice U'baba, who was dozing, leaning heavily on his stick.

The old Khajiit gave a startled jump, blinked at the baby… and fell asleep again. Disappointed, U'bhuti turned toward the sleeping Toad. Resting on a stone, a spit bubble at the corner of his mouth was inflating and deflating with the rhythm of his breathing.

"Weeee!" squeaked the toddler, as he grabbed Toad in one plump paw and stuffed the unfortunate amphibian's head in his mouth. The poor animal, woken up with a start, made a series of protesting and muffled croakings while his legs batted the air helplessly.

"No no no, U'bhuti, _no_!" Ashar exclaimed, rushing toward the baby. "Chewing the head of other people's Toad is bad!"

She took a covered-in-spit, outraged Toad out of the baby's mouth and passed him back to Sigrid, who put the animal back into her corset. Toad settled sulkily back into his favourite place, shooting dark looks at the baby and croaking soft Toadish threats and curses.

U'bhuti held his little paws toward Sigrid in a gesture clearly meaning he wanted his toy back. When he realised neither Sigrid nor Ashar were going to satisfy his will, the toddler pouted, his big eyes got watery… and he started crying.

Ashar rolled her eyes and started walking around the cavern, cradling the baby in her arms trying to succour him into stopping.

It was as Ashar passed near her, Sigrid noticed the small mark in the middle of U'bhuti's back. A strange silver mark, which consisted in three symbols linked together by a thing silver line: a full circle, a half one and what finally looked like a crescent moon… Sigrid had never paid attention to it before, probably because the baby spent most of his time in Ashar's bag and because he was usually wearing a small vest. This time though, Ashar had not yet dressed the baby properly, and the mark was perfectly visible in the light of fire and on his dark fur.

"Tell me Ashar…" Sigrid started carefully. "How old is U'bhuti?"

"I think he is almost a year old now." The Khajiit replied, installing the now calmed baby in the pile of rags she used as a bed for him. "I am not sure when he was born, you see. I found him alone in a ruined village. I decided to adopt him."

"Very kind of you…" Sigrid observed, trying to keep a neutral tone. _'You're a terrible liar Ashar."_ she added to herself._ 'Let's see what you are going to come up with to explain me what you are doing with U'baba...'_

"And what about U'baba…?" Sigrid continued aloud this time. "He's your grand-father, right?"

A shadowed passed on Ashar's face when Sigrid posed her question, as she visibly struggled to make up an acceptable tale. Luckily for her U'baba chose that moment to intervene.

"Woohoo!" he yelled, suddenly jumping back on his feet, almost scaring Sigrid to death.

"What is wrong with him this time?" the Breton demanded, panting as the old Khajiit started to dance the same way he had the first time she had met him.

"I don't...know…" Ashar seemed just as puzzled as Sigrid by the old Khajiit's behaviour.

U'baba stopped, raising his stick above his head with both hands.

Sigrid winced, remembering the last several times he'd done this, most of which involved that stick coming down on her head.

"Woohoo…" he said in a very deep and low voice, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Then, silence like the grave fell over the cavern. Nobody dared to move, and Sigrid realised she was holding her breath.

Suddenly, they heard them…

"Drums?" Ashar whispered as the sound increased.

Sigrid and the Khajiit exchanged worried glances before rushing at once toward the entrance of the cavern, followed by U'baba, muttering unintelligible things. Once there, Sigrid cursed under her breath and Ashar gasped.

"Woohoo!" U'baba exclaimed victoriously.

The horizon was illuminated by a vivid, supernaturally green aura. Pins and needles shot through Sigrid's body, concentrating in her fingers and toes.

_Magic…_

"_Can you feel it, Clairvoix?_" she asked to the sword mentally. The phenomenon at work was so strong even the _baby_ could feel it, and he showed his enthusiasm by kicking Sigrid's belly enthusiastically, making her grunt with discomfort.

"_Feeling it? My dear girl, I feel it so much I feel like I'm going to explode!"_

"_Is that the unknown kind of magic you noticed before?"_ Sigrid asked, swallowing only to find her mouth had gone dry.

"_Yes - but a thousand times more powerful…" _Clairvoix confirmed.

Sigrid bit her lower lip and turned her attention toward her companion. Ashar kept her mouth clamped shut, her eyes wide with fear. Around them, the sounds of the drums swelled and grew. Now it was as if thousands of drums where pounding all at the same time, but there were no visible signs of them or of those people beating them. The rhythm was getting faster and faster…

"What is going on, Ashar…?" Sigrid asked softly.

The Khajiit gulped. "I don't know…" she replied in a breathless whisper, quivering from eartips to toes. Sigrid was sure she was lying again, but the Khajiit looked so positively terrified the Breton decided not to press the issue. She returned her attention to the green aura, and to her greatest amazement, she realised it was _moving_.

"That _thing_ is moving west…" she said. "What's in that direction?"

"The city of Torval…" Ashar whispered.

The two women continued to observe the phenomenon in silence until the lights and the sounds simply disappeared. Ashar gave a big relieved sigh and turned toward Sigrid, her mouth open to say something. She shut it immediately when something around the Breton's chest caught her eyes.

"Sigrid?" she asked slowly, scowling confusedly at the woman's cleavage.

"What?" Sigrid asked a little defensively, unnerved by the staring, of which U'baba had joined in.

"Your toad… It's gleaming…" Ashar announced blankly, pointing one finger at Sigrid's chest.

- 25 -


	12. The Wind

**Chapter 11 ****– The Wind**

**A lot of Janus Hassildor and Ontus Vanin and a bit of Belisarius Arius in this chapter. They are going to play a determining part in the story, so they deserved a whole chapter.**

**Thanks a lot to Raven-Studio for the Beta reading. :)**

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"Aaaah, what a fabulous place!" Ontus Vanin exclaimed, half yawning, half speaking as he savoured muscatel grapes plucked from one of the numerous dishes the servant had brought for dinner. "Definitely worth the long journey from Cyrodiil. Unlimited food and beverages, luxurious, spacious private quarters with running water – as young people say, isn't that _cool_, my lord…?"

"Hmmm, I am not sure what young people 'say' nowadays, but 'cool' may not be the most appropriate adjective to describe Elsweyr…" Sitting in front of Ontus, Janus Hassildor dreamily drank in landscape visible through the magnificent arching, glassless windows, listening inattentively to Vanin's pleasant babble.

Now night had fallen, the Count swapped his suffocating brocade cloak and mask for more comfortable clothes, consisting of a simple shirt and trousers of a loose-woven cotton, easy for the night breeze to pass through.

However uncomfortable the heavier 'day clothes' were, they were also vital for Hassildor, vampirism rendering him unable to tolerate the burning sun of Elsweyr. A protracted exposure to the burning sunlight would most effectively turn him into a small pile of grey dust. Vanin would have been more than sorry to brush his friend off the ground for said friend's own funeral…

For that matter, the mage was extremely worried about the Count's ability to tolerate Elsweyr's particularly sunny environment – the two sunburned patches visible across Hassildor's cheekbones – where neither the mask nor the hood protected him from the rays of the sun – did nothing to reassure him.

Well, of course, Hassildor knew his limits, Vanin mused. If he did not, he probably would not have managed to become the powerful mage and respected political leader he was now. He really did not like to be reminded to remember his limits – such comments usually were met with dark glares at the least.

However, the Count was also a proud man – _noblesse oblige_, as he liked to say – and a great misanthropic loner convinced he could achieve everything on his own despite the fact that the facts continually proved him wrong. Such shortcomings coming to light sometimes made him take unnecessary risks, just to prove he did not need a caretaker.

Fortunately, this was where Ontus Vanin and to a lesser extent Hassildor's chatelaine Hal-Liurz, intervened on the Count's behalf.

"You should drink more to hydrate yourself, my lord." The mage said, helping himself to more of the excellent lemonade brought by the servants before pouring a second glass for Hassildor. "You are going to go as dry as raisins forgotten in the sun after all day under that heavy cloak…"

The ruby eyes of Hassildor interrupted their scanning of the landscape to land on Vanin. The Count's staring glance piercing glare made the bravest and the boldest shiver, but the old mage – despite being courageous and bold himself – knew Hassildor too well now to let himself get knocked off balance by the vampire's scrutinizing eyes.

Vanin had to admit Hassildor had completely baffled him at first, but soon, curiosity overtook natural mistrust, as the Count simply refused to adhere to all the usual clichés about vampires. Indeed, it was not everyday you had the pleasure to meet a vampire whose first reaction was not to lunge at your throat. Even rarer to meet a vampire endowed with exceptional political sensibilities, who despised most of his fellow vampires – whom he considered animals enslaved by bloodlust and other less sociably acceptable urges – and was the happy owner of a small, fluffy, white dog who drooled abundantly as it terrorised the palace guards and anyone else at whom it could bare teeth.

With the passing months during which Vanin associated with the vampire lord, the mage managed to get a unique view of the Count's highly complex personality; a strange yet consistent mix of the different lives Hassildor had lived over his very long existence – over eighty years, from what Vanin gathered so far. Under the cold, calculating and often sarcastic manners of the vampire politician, the mage discovered a man still filled with the chivalrous values instilled in him during his youth as a knight, and the future Count of Skingrad. Lord Hassildor had an almost terrifying sense of responsibility, and his personal interests always came second to those of his people, and of the city of Skingrad.

Nevertheless, the Count sometimes let hints demonstrating how sensitive he could be filter through, especially with the recent dramas in his life. Vanin remembered well how Hassildor had been deeply affected by Vicente Valtieri's death – the only friend Vanin knew the Count possessed, outside of himself – and how he was constantly concerned by the state his wife Rona, rendered comatose by refusing to feed off the life of another. The poor girl hadn't taken her change well, or so Hassildor had mentioned…

But, as with his physical limits, Hassildor would have preferred death by silver stakes and rabid mobs than admitting he could show emotions other than a sort of sardonic humour.

"My dear Ontus, with all the lemonade you've already made me drink," the Count started in his deep, silky voice, his eyes still riveted on the mage, "I feel more like a soaked sponge than dried out raisins. Given your way, I could bathe in the amount of lemonade you've foisted upon me." Janus remarked dryly, shuddering. He honestly wondered if he would ever be able to _look_ at lemonade again, much less drink the stuff, and toyed briefly with banning it from the vicinity of his castle back home.

"Well, if you have enough of lemonade, maybe you should have some fruit." Vanin proposed helpfully. "Here – try a piece of watermelon. It is both full of water_ and_ vitamins!"

Hassildor shot a gloomy look at the piece of fruit the mage was pushing toward him. Ontus Vanin, dietary expert…what next? The count began to drum his fingertips against the windowsill thoughtfully.

Given that all physicians in Tamriel wondered how the mage's heart could still beat as drowned in cholesterol as it was, the situation was not without a certain humour…

"All right, no to the watermelon then." Vanin replied with a little pout at Hassildor's clear lack of enthusiasm. Then, his face brightened as he spotted something else in the fruit basket. "Hey, why don't you try some _pomegranate_? They're good too! Well, there's less water than in the watermelon, but many more vitamins…!" Vanin prattled happily, as well as hopefully, watching Hassildor from the corners of his eyes.

"You know, Ontus," the Count said patiently, "I really wonder why, when you are around, I often feel like an overgrown chick, overprotected by a big, multicoloured and _extremely_ _intrusive_ hen…"

Vanin chuckled at the remark, not missing the way the Count's meditative finger-tapping had ceased. "Sorry if you feel like I am mothering you, my lord," he replied, still smiling, "but I am worried about your health. The weather of Elsweyr is not _exactly_ the best climate for a vampire…"

"I am very touched by your deep concern about my well-being and my level of moisturizing," Hassildor cut in rather stiffly, "but I feel perfectly fine, thank y..."

"Ah-_ha_!" Vanin interrupted him, pointing a victorious finger at the vampire. "But this is precisely what Doctor Deadstone said in his last study! Dehydration often strikes when you least expect it to happen!"

To punctuate his sentence, Vanin produced then proceeded to shove under the Count's nose a well-thumbed book. Hassildor wasn't sure where the book came from, or where Vanin had hidden it prior to its sudden appearance, but he was certain he didn't want to know.

With one very firm push of a finger, Hassildor pushed the book back away from his face so he could read the text without crossing his eyes.

_Out of Elsweyr_ appeared in big silver cursive letters. Beneath the title, in tinier characters, was the subtitle: _A Comprehensive Guide of the Khajiit Traditions and Customs, an Anthropological Study by Dr D. Deadstone_. On its cover were large greasy stains – leftovers of the mage's beloved tuna-tomato-mayonnaise sandwiches.

Hassildor blinked in surprise – something that did not happen often, and Vanin immediately took advantage of the situation by discreetly refilling the Count's tumbler.

"Sorry… Doctor _Deadstone_, you said?" the Count asked, frowning and reaching mechanically for his now-full glass as well as the book Vanin handed him. Gingerly, though, so as not to get the greasy stains on the cover on his fingers – just in case they were fresh. "The name rings a bell, but…"

"I introduced him to you a few months ago, when we dropped by the Arcane University after one of the Council meetings at the Palace." Vanin explained as Hassildor continued to examine the cover, his expression crinkled half from thought, half from discomfort at the way his 'thinking face' crinkled his sunburned skin. "He is the promising young lad who was preparing a thesis on the hidden sexual life of mudcrabs, remember?"

"Oh yes, I think I remember now…" the vampire lied, wondering if he had no clear memory of the encounter simply because his mind refused to conceive that a man could spend any amount of time working on a subject like 'thesis-on-the-hidden-sexual-life-of-mudcrabs'. "He was the small, skinny man - the one who was blind as a bat and kept talking in an excited voice, right?"

Hassildor was not taking much risk of seeming unobservant by giving such a description, as _all_ the Arcane University doctors and researchers seemed to be tiny, skinny and excited men wearing corrective lenses so thick one could wedge lopsided furniture with them. They were all so uncompromisingly similar the Count always wondered if they were only hired by the Mages' Guild as researchers on the basis of their physical appearance, or if it was the job which had this effect on them…

"Yes." Vanin replied, nodded approvingly. "That's him. David Deadstone. Doctor, archaeologist, astronomer, sociologist, mage and renowned explorer."

"Quite a lot things to bear for such a frail man…" the Count murmured, draining his glass and putting it back down.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Vanin stopped.

"Oh nothing. I was just thinking aloud…" Hassildor sighed. "So, your dear friend Deadstone switched the study of mudcrabs for one of Khajiits…?

"Not exactly, my lord." Vanin corrected, helping himself to more grapes. "Khajiits and Elsweyr have always been Deadstone's primary field of expertise. The mudcrabs thesis was just an intellectual exercise to fill up his spare time."

"Ah." The vampire commented laconically, trying once again not to think about the reasons that could push a man to study the sexual life of crustaceans in his spare time. He let a thin, pale finger run across the silver letters of the title before it slid down onto a strange symbol embossed at the bottom of the cover. His eyes narrowed. "And what is this mark exactly? It has nothing to do with mudcrabs, I suppose?" He highly doubted it.

Vanin craned his neck to take a better look. The Count was pointing at a symbol composed by a full circle, a half circle and a crescent moon, the whole linked by a silver line.

"Oh, that? I have no idea yet, my lord," the mage replied, "but I think it is explained in the chapter relative to the Moons and their influence over Khajiit breeds." Vanin refilled the empty glass surreptitiously.

Hassildor glared at the sign for a while, as if something was worrying him. "Interesting…" he whispered as he started flipping through the book and, while he was deciphering the summary, he started to drink absent-mindedly from his tumbler.

At the sight, Vanin tried to hide the little satisfied smile on his face. He always managed to achieve his aims with Hassildor. All he needed was patience…

_...and to keep the vampire distracted. _

"_Very_ interesting…" the Count mused, closing the book sharply, yanking Vanin abruptly out of his daydreaming. "But I can't remember seeing this book in the library of the castle of Skingrad. Where did you find it?"

The fat mage shifted uneasily on his chair, an embarrassed look on his face as he remained uncomfortably quiet, an attitude which meant much more than any other answer…

"Ah, I see…" Hassildor continued softly. "'Permanently borrowed' from the Imperial Palace Library, am I correct?"

"Oh, nooo…At worst, a 'long term loan'." Vanin replied uneasily, sinking a bit into his chair.

Janus Hassildor sighed heavily as he gave the book back to his companion's care. "I hope you realise that if Ocato finds you nicking books from his library, he will have a perfect excuse to send you to the gallows. And given how strained your relationship with the Chancellor is, I guess he must be _dying_ to do so…"

"That old, hair-cream-sucking slut Ocato can rot." Vanin muttered mutinously. "Besides,_ your_ relationship with him is no better than _mine_. I am pretty sure he is the one behind the sudden disappearance of all copies of Deadstone's work… I could not find any anywhere – except in_ his_ library. How suspicious is that, hey…?"

The Count did not reply immediately but sighed inwardly. Sometimes, the old mage's loathing of Chancellor Ocato bore a startling resemblance to paranoia. _"But is it really paranoia…?"_ whispered a little voice in the vampire's mind. After all, he and Vanin's current popularity among the folks of Tamriel was an obstacle to the Chancellor's rise in power, and no doubt Ocato had some devious ulterior motives in mind when he chose Hassildor and Vanin for this dangerous diplomatic mission…The count's hand tightened around his glass, his knuckles going whiter than ever.

"And why did not you simply pay a visit to Deadstone to ask him your questions about Elsweyr rather than…_borrowing_ the book?" Hassildor asked finally, deciding to keep his suspicions to himself so as not to feed Vanin's obsession. "It would have been less risky…"

Vanin sighed and shook his head. "It would certainly have, my lord. The trouble is Deadstone left a while ago for another expedition in Elsweyr, somewhere near 'Tenmar', I think. It's a shame I have no way to find him, because I would have been delighted to pay him a visit during our stay in Torval."

"It would have been a real pleasure indeed…" the Count commented, doing his best to hide the hint of sarcasm in his voice. Apparently, he failed, because Vanin shot him a disapproving look.

"Deadstone is the best in his field, you know. His books give many interesting insights on the Khajiit's customs, and the least that can be said is that he was right concerning their sense of hospitality…" Vanin smiled as he let his eyes run along the many dishes on the table. "And the young Raksada may not have Tamika vintages, but the brandy here is almost as good as yours!" He added cheerfully, bending to one side to affectionately pat a bottle of brandy he had stowed under his chair.

"Talking about _my_ personal stores," Janus started rather dryly, "I have noticed since you decided to reside permanently at the castle, the number of bottles kept in stock have considerably _diminished_…"

Vanin opened two very surprised eyes and Hassildor resisted the urge to award the mage an Annual Imperial Jester's Award.

"Really? How many bottles are missing?" Came the innocent query.

"According to the cellarman, something like…_two hundred_." Hassildor couldn't quite keep the displeasure out of his tone – the stuff was expensive to begin with, even more so with Vanin's demands far outstripping the supply.

Frigid silence ensued. Even Vanin looked somewhat surprised by the figure Hassildor had just announced.

"I hope you not are accusing me of the disappearance of all those bottles, my lord…" Vanin started stiffly, more from embarrassment than indignation.

"Well, the cellarman is ready to swear on his beloved mother's head the cave is regularly visited by a short, portly silhouette which always leave the place with its arms full of bottles. Apparently, our thief has a pronounced taste for the best Tamika vintages…" Hassildor began wryly, raising an eyebrow in Vanin's direction, making the latter flushing bright crimson.

"It must be your cellarman, making such drastic inroads into the good brandy!" the mage exclaimed indignantly, preferring to diplomatically ignore the "short-portly-silhouette," comment. "I have only stayed at Skingrad Castle less than three months…! Two hundred bottles, you said? That is much more than an ordinary man can drink in such a short period of time!"

The Count's eyes narrowed slightly, both to express his annoyance and to conceal his growing amusement. At that very moment, Vanin reminded him of a big and very sulky, very _guilty_ bumblebee. "The trouble is experience has proved me you are _far _from being an ordinary man, Master Vanin..."

The sullen, round face of the mage suddenly beamed at the words. "Should I take that as a compliment, my lord?" he asked, smiling like a quarter of melon.

Hassildor shook his head, the gleam of mild annoyance in his eyes this time giving totally way to amusement. It was hard to stay irritated at Vanin for any real length of time.

The Count had already written this off as one of the mage's survival traits.

Actually, it had taken less than three days for everybody in the Castle of Skingrad to like Vanin, and to get used to his constant and contagious good mood, his big mouth, his pronounced taste for confrontation as well as his below-the-belt sense of humour – a relic of his day in the Imperial Battlemage Commandos which often narrowly avoided diplomatic incidents.

The Count would always remember the last official dinner in Skingrad he gave in honour of the Leyawiin delegation led by the pretty but extremely snobbish Countess Alessia Caro. To make things more informal, Vanin, who had more experience regarding taverns than diplomatic dinners decided to entertain the guests by farting Leyawiin's Anthem while whistling his own accompaniment – or was it the other way around?

Regardless, the fact remained that after the mage's unforgettable performance, Hassildor had to leave the table under a false pretext to hide in a corridor and stuff his table napkin into his mouth, so as not to roar with laugher. The memory of the horrified expression on Lady Caro's face continued to keep him warm during the long and cold winter nights…

Unmethodical and boastful but so easygoing and generous, _this_ was Ontus Vanin. For many, the dumpy mage was just a crazy, eccentric old man, whose nuisance abilities remained limited to his inflammatory pamphlets against the highest authorities of the Empire and the Mage Guild. In short, people tended to think Vanin was just a loud mouth…

Obviously, Vanin _was_ a loud mouth, but those who thought he was limited to that were _greatly_ mistaken. A loud mouth would not have risked his life confronting the much-dreaded King of Worms to save a Guild which had treated him most odiously – and to which he did not belong anymore.

Of course, there were many more reasons for the Count to trust Vanin, but knowing he was backed up by a talented mage with high moral values was really appreciated, especially now he had a better idea of the kind of opponent they were facing. Raksada was certainly no piece of cake and Hassildor would have to rely on all the necessary help to outwit the sly Dunmer.

"Tell me, Ontus, what do you think of…_him_?" the Count asked out of the blue.

Vanin, who could not follow Hassildor's previous mental reasoning, blinked in puzzlement. "Of whom? Your cellarman?"

"No. Of Raksada." The Count returned to the window, looking out over the city.

The mage opened his mouth to reply but then closed it immediately, shooting around suspicious looks around before turning to Janus Hassildor again, his eyebrow rose in an inquisitive, worried way.

"You can speak freely. As strange as it may sound, I am certain there are no spies around." The Count encouraged the mage as he left his observations at the window, folded his hands behind his back and started pacing about their apartments.

"Well, I think the High Councillor is a cunning, clever bastard, with 'traitor' written in big letters all over his forehead." Vanin replied carefully, his eyes following Hassildor going back and forth in the room. "And I am not sure why, but he reminds me of an _eel _– and it is not only due to his skin colour, you know. I can picture him perfectly, hiding under a bunch of rocks to grab at his prey before he tears them limb from limb in his lair…" he grumbled, scowling darkly.

While Vanin was giving his speech, Hassildor stopped by a huge pile of silky cushions in bright colours from which a soft snore could be heard. Furball was sleeping, drooling abundantly and whining as he dreamt. His four short legs were wriggling in the air, as if he was running after something. The Count suspected his dog was reliving the incident with the Khajiit guards in dream…

"Hmm, glad to see we have reached the same conclusion." Hassildor murmured, looking away from Furball and returning his attention to Vanin. "Raksada is indeed an elusive and underhanded character. He's certainly very smart, ruthless as well. No one stupid and soft could have become a first-rate decision-maker in a country which is not his…"

"Very true, my lord." Vanin observed as he threw a grape in the air and tried to catch it in his open mouth. "And negotiating with him is going to be tricky." The grape bounced off his forehead and he swore as it rolled out of sight beneath an article of furniture.

"Oh, actually, it won't be a problem," Hassildor said with a derisive chuckle, "because Raksada has absolutely no intention of negotiating. The lulling speech he gave us this afternoon about him needing the current ruler of Elsweyr –_ Sha'ka_ – needed to be officially crowned king before he could start the negotiations was just a way for him to gain time. But for what purpose? I am not sure…" he added, tapping his chin with his forefinger as his eyes focused on a halo of light in the plains outside the wall of Torval.

Surrounded by high protective walls, the building site he and Vanin passed by that very afternoon intrigued him most. As he said, Hassildor was not _entirely sure_ why Raksada sought a delay indeed, but he was somewhat convinced it was linked to that thing being built, whatever it might be. And whatever else it _was_, it was certainly _not _good…

Hassildor suddenly regretted not having more spies at his disposal in Elsweyr – but it was true the affairs of the Council had monopolised most of his resources. Nevertheless, he felt like he could do with a bit more information now, especially on Raksada. He was currently playing his cards by trusting his intuition and he did not like it at all…

"This puzzles you a lot too, doesn't it?" a voice said on the Count's right, and the latter gave a jump. Vanin had materialised by his side, thoughtfully chewing a grape.

"Puzzle? _That_ is a euphemism…" Hassildor replied with a cough.

"It is weird, you know." Vanin continued, throwing another grape in his mouth. "I have no clue what they're working on, I don't even know what it looks like, but it_ seems_ magic – despite I can't feel anything magic radiating from it…"

"…_yet_." the Count replied thoughtfully. "If this is really a magical artefact, it's certainly not been activated. We really need to learn more about it." Preferably, he appended silently, _before_ it _got _activated.

"I'm surprised, my lord, that you don't already know what that thing is for." Vanin said mischievously. "It is so unlike you to be…uninformed."

"I had other problems to deal with!" Hassildor spat, cut to the quick. "Beside, Elsweyr has never been of any political importance. But if the subject interests you so much, why don't _you_ gather information yourself, Vanin?" he recollected himself quickly, leering at Vanin with a smile full of fangs.

"Oooh, that won't be a problem, my lord…" the mage giggled as he walked toward the table. "People love to chat to me – even if I don't know why…"

"Probably because you are very friendly and look perfectly inoffensive – unlike me."Hassildor mumbled.

"Bah, don't be bitter about that, my lord." Vanin chuckled as he sat back and, sprawling in his chair, put his feet on the table. "We all have our little talents. I am good at collecting information, and you are good at analysing it. That is why we are quite the team!" Vanin winked at the Count, who shrugged.

"Fair enough." the latter said. "But try to be careful in your enquiries though. I don't think Raksada would appreciate us investigating the matter too closely, despite the fact I suspect he suspects us of knowing he knows we know what he is really up to, even if it is not really the case…"

Hassildor's last sentence made Vanin look flustered. He put his feet back on the ground and shot the vampire an inquisitive look. "Ah. Don't tell me – it is getting political here, isn't it…?" The mage winced. Things seemed to _get_ political every time Hassildor got involved...

"Political, yes… and extremely dangerous as well, I am afraid." The count answered neutrally.

The words stayed suspended in the air.

"'Extremely dangerous', as in…?" Vanin asked slowly.

"As in 'brutally murdered'." Hassildor replied in a cheerful voice before his face became all serious again. "That is why we will sleep in the same bedroom and take turns to stand watch." The Count stopped and made a little move of the chin in direction of the dishes on the table. "And from now, I strongly advise you not to eat anything not prepared by your own hands."

At the words, Ontus Vanin's eyes opened wide and he spat on the table the content of his mouth. "_Poison_? But…" he started, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You could have swallowed the content of your mouth, Ontus." Hassildor said, shooting a disapproving look at his companion. "I did not find any in our dinner tonight, but we should be very careful." The vampire stopped and a dark expression materialised on his swallow face. "Poisoning is not very popular in Elsweyr, but it is Morrowind's national sport, and everything makes me think our dear Raksada must excel in it…"

Vanin shot an eloquent look at the grapes he was still holding in his hand and dropped them back on the table as if they were burning his fingers. "Excuse me my lord, but I must have missed something here." He said, carefully wiping his hand on his chest. "I thought we accepted Ocato's offer to be emissaries and left Cyrodiil to avoid such kind of… _inconvenience_?"

"Indeed."

"… and now we are in a wild, not well known and _dangerous_ country where we have no support at all, _you are actually telling me we are incurring the very same dangers_?"

Hassildor nodded. "I _actually_ am, yes."

The wry yet satisfied smile on the vampire's face made Vanin frown.

"I know that look of yours, and I don't like it at all…" The mage started in a low voice, getting up again and walking toward Hassildor, shaking an angry finger at him. "There's something else, isn't there? All these stories about leaving Cyrodiil to avoid being victims of the political plots within the Council, it was just all lies, right? You could havedealt _perfectly well_ with the people posing the threat!"

Hassildor's smile grew wider as he gently pushed away the forefinger Vanin was shaking under his nose with the back of his hand.

"I could have, indeed – but I did not entirely _lie_, Ontus. Let's just say I have not told you everything with regards to the reasons prompting me to accept Ocato's mission in Elsweyr."

"And would you mind tell me _now _then, before I get killed for a reason I don't know anything about!?" Vanin sputtered indignantly.

"I can't, simply because I am not certain of anything myself." The vampire sighed. "And, no, there is no need to insist, because I won't reveal anything until I am entirely sure." A failsafe way of avoiding mistakes.

Vanin opened his mouth to protest once more, but was interrupted by a bark from the pile of cushions. Furball's head emerged from behind a pink one. He blinked several times and rushed out of the pile, starting to race around the room.

"Hey! What's wrong with him?" Vanin asked as Furball ran between his legs.

"I don't know." The Count said, stepping calmly sideways to avoid an over-excited Furball. "I took him out for a walk and he got his food…"

Vanin did not seemed convinced and he frowned as he looked at Furball biting a cushion and dragged him away in a concert of enthusiastic "whirf". "I don't think it has anything to do with that… He looks very agitated…"

"Well, it doesn't change him much then – _Furball, stop that immediately!_" Hassildor barked as he strode after Furball, who had ripped open the cushion and was now shaking its remains around energetically, provoking a cloud of white feathers to rise in the room.

Suddenly, they heard them. Drums. A lot of drums…

Vanin shot Hassildor a strained look. "Do you remember Raksada mentioning an open-air concert tonight…?"

"No, I can't…" The Count whispered, putting Furball and the cushion back on the ground.

The two Imperials exchanged a glance and rushed as one toward the window. Around them, the sound of the drums was intensifying.

They were not the only ones to seem surprised. Around them in the kraal, the windows filled with people who glanced outside with puzzled looks on their faces.

"Darn!" Vanin exclaimed. Bending out the window, he looked in the dark but disappointingly empty gardens below. "Dozens and dozens of drums playing, but neither they nor their players can be seen anywhere? What do you way of that, hey?"

"Not much, apart from the fact we are talking about hundreds of drums, not dozens here…" Hassildor said in a soft voice which did not hide his anxiety. "But, to be honest, this does not worry me as much as _that_."

Vanin looked up from the garden to the direction toward which Hassildor was pointing with his hand and gave an 'eep' before pulling himself back together. "By all the Gods and the Daedra together! What is _that_!?"

A green aura appeared at the horizon, lighting up the landscape as if by daylight.

"I don't know…" Hassildor whispered, frowning. "But can you…?"

"… feel the magic?" Vanin ended with a nervous chuckle. "Oh yes! It's making my teeth chatter… But where's it coming from!?"

"We are facing south-west, so I guess it must be coming from the Tenmar Forest…" the Count whispered between gritted teeth. The magical intensity was such he almost shivered from he sensation of pins and needles all over his body. It was even starting to make him feel extremely dizzy. A quick look at Ontus Vanin's very pale face indicated him the mage was experiencing the same.

"Look! It is moving!" the old mage exclaimed, trying to ignore the buzzing in his teeth.

There was a long pause during which they observed the strange and powerful phenomenon in silence – well, almost in silence, except for Furball's excited "whirf" as he jumped up and down to take a better look at was going on behind the parapet.

"Janus…" Even if Vanin tried to keep a nonchalant voice, the Count knew the old mage was extremely worried because he would never dare calling him by his first name otherwise. "Is that me, or is that green thing coming right at us…?"

The Count continued to observe the green aura – or rather, given the way the thing was whirling, the wind – and a deep cease of worry starting to form across his forehead.

"It is coming toward us indeed. And at very high speed…"

An anxious clamour rose from the streets of Torval as the phenomenon got nearer of city. The people standing at the window of the Palace were pointing at the wind, uttering cries of surprise and fear. Vanin gulped and took a step backward. The green wind had just passed the city walls…

"Er… What do we do now…?"

"Hmmm… A little prayer to the Gods sounds perfectly fine to me…" the Count replied with a fixed smile.

And suddenly, the powerful wind struck the Kraal of Torval.

7777777777777777

Sitting at his desk in his quarters, Raksada struggled work through the huge pile of tedious paperwork which had accumulated over the course of the day. It was already late in the evening, and the Dunmer let a weary sigh slip through his lips when he realised he probably would not get more than a couple of hours of sleep tonight…

Written work and documents were not really part of the traditional Elsweyrian culture, which remained essentially oral. However, the Empire's domination over the country had changed this, and now Khajiits had discovered the advantages of paperwork, the first of which was the ability to _drown_ the authorities – that is to say Raksada – in the deluge…

The Dark Elf sighed again and, pushing a lock of his long, curly black hair behind his ear, shot a gloomy look at the piece of parchment lying on his desk in front of him. Yet another petition signed by the Merchants Guild of Torval, complaining about the new taxes Incosi Sha'ka had imposed to finance the new equipment for his troops in anticipation of an eventual conflict with the Empire – a conflict which actually moved from "eventual" to "almost certain" today…

Right after Hassildor, Vanin and that fluffy, drooling _thing_ the Count claimed was a dog – he even gave the menace a name: _Furball_ – were installed in their quarters, Hassildor had insisted on 'explaining' the official version of his mission. And the least that could be said was that the Count did not beat around the bush.

The Council of Elders, he said, demanded the immediate and public action of the current government of Elsweyr against those guilty of the massacre of the Imperial garrisons in its territory.

Reading between the lines, Raksada knew, meant himself, among others.

In addition, the Council insisted on the payment of a compensation for the damages caused and the complete disarmament of all militias which had taken a part in the conflict, immediately and forthwith.

Raksada – apart from not wanting to lose his troops – fully expected Sha'ka to see that any fines levied went to him, Raksada, _personally_. The number of septims would probably make even the Dunmer's head spin, and not in a good way...

And finally, the members of the Council wished the leaders of Elsweyr to provide them with a clear explanation for the recent turmoil which had troubled – and was still troubling – the country, as well as precise information on the exact whereabouts of the Mane, with whom the Imperial authorities had always had a special relationship.

Raksada's hands convulsed into fists. Who thought 'bad' could get so bad...and still sink to newer, deeper levels of worse?

_If_ the previous requests were fulfilled in timely fashion, the Council was ready to negotiate the terms of a new treaty in which it would recognize the legitimacy of the new authority of Elsweyr, as long as the latter was ready to pledge allegiance to the Imperial authority.

Raksada shivered. The temperature had not considerably dropped, but tonight's breeze was inexplicably…_cold_. It was, he thought, nothing to do with the bad news. Nor even the worse news, it was simply, puzzlingly, inexplicably, unseasonably _cold_.

Frowning, the Dunmer got up and stretched his numb muscles, walking slowly toward his large window, dreamily observing the landscape while he let his thoughts circle back to the terms of the negotiations as defined by the Council of Elders.

_Negotiations_, Raksada thought, an amused smile on the face. What the Empire proposed was nothing else than a not-so-subtly-disguised ultimatum. _Apologise, pay and submit yourself to our will. And then, _maybe_ we will deign to recognise you…but don't hold your breath. _

The Dunmer chuckled, wondering if Ocato and the Council of Elders really wanted peace, or if they were deliberately looking forward opening hostilities – perhaps to show the rest of the provinces, especially Morrowind – that no one could afford joking with the power of the Empire…?

No, it couldn't be that. The Chancellor, still bogged down in the political intrigues which plagued the Council since Uriel Septim's death, simply had not yet realised what was slowly – but surely – hatching in Elsweyr. The Council probably thought they were dealing with a classic uprising – very common in Elsweyr – and that the instigators would too happily abandon their plans with the application of a simple but very expensive reprimand.

Sadly for them, they were terribly wrong.

Raksada giggled again, but this time, his snigger was full of malevolent glee. Oh dear, they were _all_ so _wrong_ – even Sha'ka, who imagined the High Councillor was serving his interests. _Ah!_ As if the Dunmer cared about establishing Elsweyr's dominion over the rest of the continent.

No, his plans were much more ambitious. But to work out, they needed the Ultimate Resonator to be ready and then…

Someone knocked on the door and took Raksada out of his thoughts. "What?!" he barked, turning around, an expression of deep annoyance on his face.

The door opened an inch and an old female Khajiit servant entered. "I bring you another lamp, O ubasi." She said in a quavering voice, bowing deeply to the Dunmer despite the terrible sound of creaking vertebras.

"Put it on the table and go away." Raksada grumbled. "And don't forget to close the door!"

The old servant straightened up in another concert of martyrized bones and obediently sneaked off.

Raksada frowned. He could not remember having seen her in his staff before. Ah, never mind! He had other problems to ponder…

At the end of Hassildor's exposition, Raksada told the Count he had to postpone his answer to the demands of the Council until Sha'ka was crowned Incosi, but of course, the Count was not fooled. Nevertheless, it left Raksada with a bit more time to think how to deal with Hassildor and Vanin, because the presence of the two emissaries was posing a _really big_ problem…

One the one hand, Raksada knew it was extremely risky to let them wander around and ask people probably tricky, potentially damaging questions, especially about the Ultimate Resonator, which – the Dunmer had no doubt – certainly had already triggered the Count's interest. On the other hand, he could not eliminate them "just-like-that", firstly because the Dark Elf doubted the two Imperials would let themselves be assassinated so easily, secondly because the elimination of Imperial emissaries, one of them a Peer of the Empire, would definitely be a _casus belli_. And the last thing Raksada wanted was to see legions of Imperial soldiers poking their noses in his business – without forgetting that kind of news would give Sha'ka a bad hair day, and Khajiits tended to have a bad hair day all over their body…

Of course, Raksada was well aware of Ocato's antagonism of Hassildor and Vanin. Nevertheless, however happy the Chancellor would be about the elimination of two potential rivals, his credibility would demand in any case that he send troops to avenge their deaths. The big question remained how much time it would take Ocato to react…

Given this not so minor detail remained rather unsure, Raksada decided to play prudently. Hassildor and Vanin would remain alive until Sha'ka's coronation. After that, well, the Dunmer would have another think.

Maybe in the meantime Raksada could find a certain… _usefulness_ for the emissaries. A purely evil smile played on the Dunmer's lips at the memory of Princess Naandi approaching Vanin and Hassildor this afternoon…

What did she think, with her "all-sweetness-and-light" airs? That he had not seen her little game clearly, wiggling her bottom like that at the two Imperials? If she imagined she could play them against him, she was painfully mistaken...and by the way, things could actually work the _other way_ round…

Indeed, what would Sha'ka think if he discovered his beloved wife was involved with people he considered enemies and refused to deal with directly? Without getting into the details, it was certainly going to be very…_violent_. Just for that, it was worth taking the risk to keep the two Imperial alive for the moment…

Someone knocked on the door again. Raksada rolled his eyes as he turned around for the second time. "What _again_?!"

"Er… it is me, O ubasi. I bring you another lamp…"

There was a pause during which nothing could be heard apart from the song of the crickets.

"But you already brought me one, you old, stupid, overgrown _housecat_!" the Dunmer exclaimed, rushing at the old servant and snatching the lamp from her trembling hands. "I have so many lamps now that we could light the road from Torval to Senchal! Do you have any idea how much it costs to..."

"I am sorry…!" the servant whined, wringing her hands. "I am sorry…!"

"And stop saying you are sorry!"

"I am sorry…!"

Raksada's face twitched in rage as he raised his hand above his head, ready to deliver a blow to the old Khajiit which would make her teeth flying out of her mouth.

And then, there was a vibration. A tiny pulsation, almost imperceptible, but which had the same effect on Raksada as a slap in the face. "What is that?" he asked in a breathy whisper.

"What…what is what, O ubasi?" the old servant asked fearfully, still eyeing the raised hand.

But Raksada was not listening to her. He walked unsteadily toward his window and looked outside, breathing heavily.

_Nothing…_

Suddenly, there was another vibration, stronger than the first one, quickly followed by another. And another. And another. The pulsations followed on until they formed a beat.

A shiver ran along Raksada's spine and his pupils pinpointed with terror. Now he could hear them…

The drums. Their sound rose in the air and the pulsations were now so strong Raksada felt the ground vibrating under his thin-soled sandals.

_The swamps,_ _source of life and death…The smell of turf, of mud made of many deceased and rotting organisms…_

Deep in his bones, Raksada could feel its presence. It was there, around him. _In him_. Waiting…

The foul smell of stagnant water invading his nostrils was making him sick.

_The swamps,_ _source of life and death… The swamps demand payment…_

"Ubasi Raksada?"

Raksada shook his head to try to get rid of his growing feeling of dear and turned it in the direction of the voice. The old Khajiit was still there, standing by the Dunmer and looking at him with a mix expression of concern and fear.

"Ubasi Raksada are you all ri – eeeeek!"

The Khajiit uttering a scream of sheer terror when Raksada grabbed her by the front of her patched dress and lifted her above the ground.

"Go and fetch the Captain on duty tonight." he hissed in her face. "Tell to meet me here _immediately_. We are going to have a lot on our plate…"

He threw her on the ground and watched her cower. He turned back toward his window silently observing the landscape now illuminated by the green light of the aura which was moving at high speed toward Torval… But this time, Raksada remained perfectly calm. Terror and anguish had been replaced in his eyes by hatred and anger and around him, a green aura – the same green as the one of the wind – started to appear.

"You old fool, you dare to use my own power against me?!" he yelled at the top of his voice in the direction of the green aura. "I already beat you once, Mama Sam! And I will again!"

The wind passed over the outskirts of the city and got over the city walls. The closer it got, the more intense Raksada's aura.

"Come. I am waiting for you…" the Dunmer whispered with a joyful and malevolent expression on his face, opening his arms in a mocking embrace.

Suddenly, the powerful wind struck the Kraal of Torval.

7777777777777777

The magic green wind whirled and twisted in the air. Above the trees of Tenmar first, then above the vast plains and now over the habitations of Torval. Its progression was relentless and quick. The Wind could not be stopped. The Wind wanted vengeance.

Of course, the Wind did not have a proper consciousness, apart from the agglomeration of the thousand of consciousnesses which composed it. Nevertheless, this agglomerated conscience knew what it wanted…

_Revenge_.

And to appease it, the Wind only had to listen to the Beat telling it were to go, like a big forefinger pointing at the one who dared to pervert beyond imagination the power of the swamps.

He had to pay. And he would pay. Both the Beat and the Wind would make sure of that.

Still guided by the Beat, the Wind continued to pass over houses.

_**Boom**_

The powerful wind slammed into the Kraal of Torval, rocking it to the foundations.

7777777777777777

A silhouette was trotting along the country side toward Fort Farragut, moving silently and quickly like a cat, except that if one had tried to scratch the shadow's tummy, one would have quite a surprise. A _bad _one…

Because Belisarius Arius was not the kind to purr or to bring his prey home – and thus risking spoiling the carpets with the blood. No, Arius was a busy man who had to be quick if he wanted to meet up with the members of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, already on their way to the Synod.

_The Synod_…

The favourite subject of discussion in the Sanctuary lately, as well as in the rest of the Brotherhood. A word murmured excitedly and fearfully under the dark stone arches of the Sanctuaries, and Arius' fellow Brothers and Sisters in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary passionately discussed it too – apart from M'raaj-Dar, who flatly commented on the news with a laconic "we-are-right-in-the-shit". And of all the remarks Arius had heard on the subject, the snappy Khajiit's was certainly the most accurate.

They were indeed in a very tricky situation. Ocheeva and he had repeatedly discussed it, considering the problem from all possible angles, but they always reached the same conclusion.

Arquen was obviously preparing a nasty trick of her own, but nothing could be done against the High Elf, firstly because they did not know exactly what she was up to, and secondly because the organisation of a Synod hinted that Arquen somehow received the Night Mother's approval…

To make it worse, the Acting-Listener kept visiting the Sanctuary on an almost daily basis, making acerbic and unjustified comments on the running of the Sanctuary whenever the situation allowed. This was gradually taking its toll on Ocheeva, who grew taciturn in response to it, and now spent most of her time locked in her room, brooding.

This last bit distressed Arius greatly, especially as he doubted the other Sanctuaries were subjected to the same treatment, and he was starting to resent the Acting-Listener – and he was not the only one.

Lachance's Silencer saw the murderous glances Teinaava shot Arquen every time she picked on his eggmate, and after every visit from the Listener, Gogron felt the urge to sharpen his already-very-sharp-axe…

One of these days, one or both of them would consider Arquen's unfair criticisms as the last straw and would certainly try something unwise against the Acting-Listener…

Arius sighed inwardly. He could not blame them completely. After all, the assassins of the Dark Brotherhood were dangerous, psychopathic maniacs whose homicidal urges did not predispose them to a normal social life. Nevertheless, the Dark Brotherhood, through a delicate balance of threats and rewards, had managed to create a special bond between its members, something very close to filial piety. The Brotherhood assassins were thus not _only_ a bunch of killers motivated by money and sadistic instincts, but they all had the same mother – the Night Mother – and shared a common goal: to satisfy their Dread Father Sithis.

And it was that smattering of social behaviour Arquen was scratching with her dirty finger. By putting the Cheydinhal Sanctuary under pressure, she certainly hoped to force them beyond the point of no return. And then, she would have a perfect excuse to have a real go at survivors…

But hopefully, they were not there yet, and for the moment, what really mattered was getting Shadowmere back. Arius was not extremely enthusiastic about bringing the mare to the Synod with him, but Ocheeva had refused to leave the beast alone for a couple of days – first because the Argonian was genuinely alarmed by Shadowmere's recent lack of spirit, second because she did not want risk the unhappy horse going on a rampage, thus bringing too much attention to Fort Farragut.

Arius had voiced his scepticism regarding this second point, as all Shadowmere did lately consisted of refusing to eat and pouting. Voicing this opinion to the already strained Argonian was a big mistake because it had only reinforced Ocheeva's determination to keep an eye on the mare.

The assassin finally arrived at Fort Farragut and slipped into its dark inner courtyard.

The Imperial frowned and his hand slowly moved toward the dagger around his waist. He was sure he left torches burning earlier to make sure Shadowmere was not left in the dark. And he could not see the mare anywhere…

Growing worried, the assassin continued to progress slowly, looking around. He could not see anything, but the little hairs on his neck standing on end could not lie to him. He was not alone.

"Hey, hey, hey – but what have we here?" said a voice on Arius' right. "Would it be the pen-pusher Lachance recruited to fill in the gap in his Sanctuary…?"

Arius did not reply but his heart sank. The voice was unpleasantly familiar…

"What's your name again?" the voice continued as a silhouette emerged from the dark where Arius would have sworn to be totally empty a moment before. "Belisarius Ariz, right?"

"It is 'Arius', thank you." the Imperial corrected in a voice he wanted to sound calm and neutral. "And what is the colour of night?"

"Oh, don't be so formal, _Ariz_. We are both brothers here, aren't we?" the voice sniggered, this time voluntarily mispronouncing the Imperial's name. The shadow drew nearer and, under the hood, Arius saw his worst fears confirmed.

The man standing in front of him had only one little eye gleaming with spitefulness, while the rest of his face reminded Arius of a fish. The Imperial was facing one of the two assassins who accompanied Arquen everywhere she went. The short, slim and sinewy man Ocheeva had so-kindly nicknamed "Anchovy Face" was watching Arius with an expression of unveiled scorn, but Nutty, his big brute of a sidekick, remained disturbingly invisible.

"Yes, yes, we are…" Arius admitted, trying to scan the surrounding discretely while keeping an eye on his visible visitor at the same time. Other shadows started to move around him, but remained concealed in the darkness, as if they wanted Arius to know they were there but refusing to show him if it was good or bad news…

"So, what are you doing here, pen-pusher?" Anchovy Face asked in a conversational tone. "Shouldn't you be on your way to the Synod…?"

Arius tried not to show any sign of worry, but a big lump appeared in his throat and his hands became very sweaty. What was he supposed to do? Tell Anchovy Face the reason for his presence? Or tell him to mind his own business, as Arius was not accountable to him…? The last option was extremely tempting, but the presence of the shadows around him dissuaded him to be too openly hostile – provoking someone like Anchovy Face, who had an unknown amount of backup wasn't smart, or good for longevity.

"I made a little detour to Farragut to make sure Shadowmere – Speaker Lachance's horse – was all right. That's all…" Arius answered with a noncommittal shrug. "Part of my job, you know."

Anchovy Face did not reply immediately and there was a pause during which the one-eyed assassin observed Arius carefully. The unpleasant gleam in his eyes became more intense. "That's interesting, you see." He said softly. "Because we are here for that too…"

Arius frowned, not being sure how to interpret the remark. "I beg your pardon?"

"Listener Arquen thinks it is a shame Shadowmere remained_…unemployed_. She said the mare is definitely a horse deserving of a Listener and she wants her for her personal use." Anchovy Face explained with a malevolent smile. "And as the supreme Head of the Dark Brotherhood, it's her right after all, isn't it?"

Again, Arius wondered if his ears had not played a trick on him. Arquen? Supreme Head of the Black Hand, yes, but of the _Dark Brotherhood_…? Was it a simple slip of tongue or was it revealing of something much more sinister…?

"Actually, it is not." Arius replied firmly. "Speaker Lachance owns Shadowmere in a _private _capacity, not a professional one. As such and legally speaking, he is the only one able to claim possession of the mare." Never mind that Shadowmere would not only take Arius' view of the matter, but she would probably bite Arquen's fingers – all of them - off, causing Lachance a big mess of a whole other sort when he got back.

Anchovy Face welcomed Arius' remark with flabbergasted scepticism first, before an expression of pure malevolence painted over his literally fishy face. "Ooooh, look at that!" He exclaimed in a mocking voice. "Pen-pusher is giving us a law class! Isn't that cute?"

The remark generated a wave of coarse, entirely humourless laughter, which echoed in courtyard.

Arius tried not to gulp. He was not totally sure, but he had counted no less than three different voices. The situation did not look good…

"The trouble is, buddy," Anchovy Face continued, "that Lachance is not here _anymore_… And according to the Dark Brotherhood's customs, the belongings of a deceased assassin are shared between his Brothers and Sisters. See? I know my law too."

Arius felt his mouth go very dry at the words. _Deceased assassin…?_

"Indeed my dear Brother, but for that to happen, Speaker Lachance would have to be dead – which remained to be proved…" Arius answered.

"Oh, who knows what happened to him and J'Ghasta during their long and dangerous journey to Elsweyr…" the small assassin murmured. There was the silky sound of a blade being taken out of its sheath and Anchovy Face toyed idly with his dagger before pointing it nonchalantly at Arius. "Anyway, these little details can be solved very quickly, can't they?"

Arius' jaw dropped. "I hope you are not talking about assassinating one of your superior…!" The Silencer was shocked, even if he knew he should not be. Even if Arquen had made her ambitions clear to everyone, it was one thing to give hints about it, but it was another to boast openly about it.

"You know, it is not Lachance's security which should worry you at the moment…" Anchovy Face replied in a cheerful but threatening voice. His eye suddenly narrowed. "But enough of this – where's the horse, pen-pusher?"

"I don't know." Arius replied heartily, and it was the entire truth. Sadly, this not seemed to convince Anchovy Face at all.

"Where's the horse?" The small assassin repeated, this time drawing closer. Around Arius, the other shadows started to do the same. "I know you and that Argonian bitch have hidden it. So tell us where it is, or _else_…"

"I am not sure what Ocheeva and I have done to deserve such animosity," Arius started, taking a few steps backward and trying his best to quell the feeling of anger which started to rise in his chest at the insult thrown at Ocheeva, "but I am certain it is not serious enough for you to take the risk breaking one of the Tenets…"

The shadows around him sniggered and this time, Arius was sure he counted three voices. If he added Anchovy Face, it meant he was surrounded by nothing less than _four_ assassins. Arquen had sent the equivalent of half a Sanctuary to get Shadowmere as her mount? It was complete nonsense!

"Breaking the Tenets?! I am here on the _Listener_ Arquen's order, pen-pusher! Her word is the law! So, for the last time, _where is Lachance' horse!?"_

"For the last time, _I don't know where Shadowmere is_!" Arius snarled.

Behind Arius, the three assassins fell back to block any attempt at escape.

Anchovy Face sneered. "Wrong answer."

And in less than a heartbeat, he was on Arius.

But Lachance's Silencer had seen the coming attack.

Anchovy Face was somewhat right. Arius had spent most of his time in the Brotherhood as a sort of accountant and administrator – a pen-pusher, to put it bluntly. Nevertheless, his challengers should have kept in mind that someone able to hold the accounts books and to kill people with them should be dealt with very carefully…

Grabbing his opponent by the shoulder, Arius rolled on his back and, pushing against Anchovy Face's belly with his right feet, he made the later flying in the air and landing on one of the assassins standing behind Arius. There were screams and confusion of which Arius took full advantage, running like mad towards the door which led to the bowels of the Fort. He slammed the door behind him and could not repress a grin when he heard noises like several bodies crashing against it, followed by a collective "humphargh!".

_Dumb and dumber_. It looked to Arius as though Arquen preferred her thugs as brainless as herself.

The Silencer did not dwell at length on the subject – he had more urgent matters to deal with, at the top of the list was losing his pursuers in the maze of corridors, and to reach the secret entrance in Lucien's inner sanctum himself. That door wasn't going to hold forever.

"He can't have gone far!" Yelled Anchovy Face's voice which echoed along the corridors. "Let's split up!"

The scream spurred Arius on, and he tried his best to remain as quiet as possible while moving as _fast_ as possible. The silence like that of the grave fell in the bowels of the Fort, and nowhere could be heard any of the reassuring and familiar creaking noises made by the bones of the Dark Guardians. Arius could have done with their help to survive this lethal hide-and-seek game…

_But where _are_ they…!?_

Arquen's assassins had certainly visited the Fort, as proved by the many muddy footprints those filthy pigs had left everywhere on the cobblestones Arius had carefully cleaned – some people really did not respect anything nowadays…

But the Guardians must have stopped them, driven them outside, hadn't they…?

The corridor suddenly expanded as Arius entered one of the large rooms of the Fort. Carefully following the wall, he swore under his breath when he suddenly stumbled on something in the dark, closely missing to fall. The assassin looked down and found his answer about the mysterious absence of Farragut's Dark Guardians.

Bones lay scattered everywhere amidst the remains of armour and weapons. A few feet from him lay the top half of one of the skeleton henchmen, its hand still closed on the handle of its axe. The Dark Guardians of the Fort weren't anymore…

"_Darn, when I __tell Gak…"_ Arius thought, wincing at the prospect. The Dark Guardian of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary was going to make a song and dance about it… **(1) **

Arius felt guilt rising in his chest as he crouched by the remains of one of the Guardians. Speaker Lachance had left him in charge of the Fort, and now Shadowmere had disappeared and the Dark Guardians were decimated. He was hopeless, really. Lucien had offered him the opportunity to prove himself, and he had spoiled everything. What would his Speaker say…? Worst – _what would Ocheeva think…? _

"How could they to do such a thing…?" Arius murmured sadly, letting a finger running on a shinbone.

"They didn't wish to cooperate." A voice said. "They refused to let us search Lachance's quarters. The fools..."

Arius looked upward to find himself facing Anchovy Face. This time, he did not manage to avoid the attack.

The dagger flew through the air and drove into the right side of Arius' chest, beneath the collarbone. The Silencer did not even scream when he fell back, his breathing ragged with shock and pain.

"Were you _seriously_ thinking you could escape us, pen-pusher? If yes, you're even more stupid than I initially thought. Quite an accomplishment." The one-eyed assassin prowled toward Arius nonchalantly, his hands crossed behind his back, his malevolent grin still hanging on his repulsive face. He obviously took great pleasure in Arius' pain and dismay. "Shame that, like the Dark Guardians, you are not able to see where you interest lie."

"The Dark Guardians did what they had to do." Arius growled despite the pain as he managed to straighten up on his left elbow, shooting a look of pure hatred at Anchovy Face, who was now towering over him. "They are loyal servants of the Dark Brotherhood – _unlike you_!"

At the last words, Anchovy Face's mouth twitched in anger. He uncrossed his arms, revealing the butcher's hook he held in his right hand, kicking Arius violently in his injured shoulder, causing the dagger to twist in the wound. This time, the Silencer yelped as he fall back on the ground, his hands clutching his shoulder while, his eyes wide with pain, gasping for air.

"For the last time, we are here on the _Listener's orders!_" Anchovy Face hissed, planting his filthy boot on Arius' cheek to force the injured Silencer to remain down. He considered his victim for a while before the angry expression on his face changed to malevolent glee. "You know, the others were extremely excited about participating in your execution, but I think I'm not going to call them, and reserve the pleasure of butchering you for myself …"

He grabbed Arius by the collar of his shirt, forcing him to stand up, and with unusual strength for such a small man, he pinned the Silencer against the wall, placing the tip of the hook against his jugular.

"Say goodbye, pen-pusher!" Anchovy Face exclaimed merrily. "You just won a ticket for the Paradise of Accountants!"

Anchovy Face was about to rip open Arius' throat, but he stopped, his expression frozen as a change came over the pinned assassin.

Inexplicably, the Imperial was now sneering openly at him.

"What's so funny?" The one-eyed assassin growled.

"Tell me one thing, O my Brother." the Silencer whispered, a nasty gleam in his eyes. "Do you have any idea of why Lachance hired me?"

The one-eyed assassin frowned in puzzlement, unnerved by the sudden change in demeanour. "No, but I can't see the point…"

Arius' smile grew wider, and Anchovy Face's suddenly had the impression he had made a mistake, even if he was not sure what it was.

"Shame. If you had, you probably would not have so foolishly underestimated me…" Quick as lightning, Arius grabbed the handle of the dagger still stuck in his shoulder, pulled it out and slashed his aggressor across the face with it.

Covering his wounded face with his hands, Anchovy Face retreated, dropping his weapon, yelling in pain and anger. His screams cut off abruptly when kneed him several times in the stomach – before finishing him off with a good kick "à la Sigrid" right in the family jewels.

Anchovy Face whimpered incoherently, then collapsed on his knees before his forehead bounced feebly against the ground.

Arius considered him, dagger raised, hesitating on the conduct to adopt. The bastard really deserved to have his throat cut right now. But Anchovy Face had been neutralised, and if Arius killed him now, it would certainly not be considered as self-defence anymore – and would without fail trigger the Wrath of Sithis…

"This way!" a voice yelled somewhere in the Fort's corridor.

Alerted by the screams, the assassins were finally heading in the right direction, Arius cursed himself. He should have killed Anchovy Face when the other was still a threat to him! This bastard was getting off lightly, after all he had done…!

"With the pen-pusher and the Argonian bitch's compliments!" Arius exclaimed angrily, kicking a motionless Anchovy Face furiously in the ribs before sprinting along a corridor on his left.

Now, the Silencer _really_ had to be quick. The footsteps of the other assassins were getting closer, and he would certainly not be able to face another fight like the last one. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable and blood was soaking his shirt. If the Silencer did not manage to shake his pursuers, he would pass out of exhaustion, then he'd _really_ be in trouble. Thoughts of what the other assassins would do to him if they got their hands on him helped Arius keep his motivation to keep moving.

Still running like lighting, Arius finally arrived in Lachance's quarters. Sighing in relief, he immediately triggered the hidden mechanism which made the rope ladder permitting to access to the hidden entrance above fall down descend, so he could climb it with difficulty. He had just reached the top when his three pursuers entered the room just as he pulled the ladder up to prevent them from following, triggering a concert of insults and angry screams.

"The bastard! He's going to escape!" one of the assassins yelled from bellow, shaking an angry fist at him. "We need to get out! _Quick_!"

Arius gave them a highly sarcastic wave before rushing out of the hollow tree hiding the secret trap door.

_Just a little m__ore effort and he was saved._

The Cheydinhal lights were visible in the distance. Once there, he could put himself under the protection of the guards. He would come up with a story about bandits on the road, and his "Brothers" would not dare to…to what, exactly?

The landscape suddenly started to spin and Arius stumbled, avoiding falling only because he managed to grab the trunk of a tree. His arms still around it, he slipped against it until he found himself crouching.

_No, he could not stop __here. The others were still after him… _

Arius hugged the tree a little bit more, driving the rough bark getting into his skin. The pain woke him up a bit, and holding back a gasp of pain, he got up and start running again on shaky legs. His shoulder was throbbing and blood pressure was drumming his ears.

_Come on… __Just a little more effort… _

…and suddenly, something grabbed his arm.

On instinct, Arius turned around, ready to punch his aggressor, but the latter caught his fist, and to his greatest horror, the Silencer found himself facing Nutty, Arquen's second lieutenant, _the_ biggest brute Arius had ever seen in his life.

He had completely forgotten about this one, and he now paid the price of his inattentiveness.

"Where're you going? You shouldn't run like that!" Nutty said in a conversational voice, before punctuating his sentence by head-butting Arius.

The Silencer felt like he had hit a wall full force. The bone beneath his left eyebrow creaked sinisterly as it broke and, as he was thrown backward, his head and back hit the ground with a thud, leaving him stunned.

Arius blinked several times, trying to stay conscious, but he had a furious desire to fall asleep_ right now._

"The others said I'd to stop anyone getting out of Farragut or looking in a hurry." Nutty continued in a friendly voice somewhere above him. "And you were in a hurry because you were running, hey?"

Arius did not reply, too busy trying to prevent his eyeballs from rolling upwards.

"And now, time to sleep." the giant said in an almost kind voice.

The Silencer felt Nutty grabbing him by the front of his shirt and saw the assassin's huge fist just before it slammed into his face like a hammer.

The last thing he thought before the darkness of unconsciousness swallowed him up, was if Ocheeva and the others would miss him...

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"Ye Gods, all this makes me really _miss_ my stock of insecticides!" Vanin exclaimed to Hassildor's back as he, the Count and Furball ran along the corridors of the kraal of Torval. "If I had known, I would have brought a few bottles…I mean, look at that! There are _thousands_ of them!"

The vampire did not reply, too busy avoiding the panicked courtiers running around the place, and not walking on the creatures which had invaded the Palace just after the wind had died, as suddenly as it had appeared.

As Vanin said, there were indeed thousand of _them _– snakes, spiders, leeches, toads, batrachians and reptiles of all shapes and sizes: crawling insects, writhing invertebrates, far more than Hassildor thought possible. There were even huge climbing plants winding up around the columns. But most striking was the smell of mud and stagnant water which permeated everything…

"I never saw such a phenomenon before!" the old mage continued, stopping to look at a female Khajiit screaming as she passed, her mane full of millipedes. "I mean, I had heard about swarms of grasshoppers destroying harvests, but never anything about swamp creatures invading palaces!"

"Neither have I." The Count finally answered, stopping as he ducked, a dragonfly as big as his arm zipping overhead. "It really looks like Tenmar's swamps have invaded the kraal."

"And what are all those thingies?" Ontus wondered, pointing a fat finger at what looked like a greenish slug, as long as a forearm, which was looking at him with two big bulging eyes standing at the top of two antennas. "They drool as much as Furball!"

The little dog made a "whirf?" noise at the mention of his name and got closer to Vanin, who was now poking the slug with the tip of his staff.

"Look at that! It's so soft it looks like jelly." The mage continued poking the animal, and the slug made an annoyed burbling sound. Vanin beamed. "And it makes funny noises too!"

"Vanin…" Hassildor warned, eyeing the slug which was changing of colour, moving from green to orange, and staring to get red.

"Oh, this is hilari…!"

Vanin did not finish his sentence as he ducked to avoid a whitish, sticky substance spat at his face by the angry, now very red slug.

"Bitch!" he shouted.

The creature stiffened under the heat uttering a series of ear-splitting and pathetic screams.

Furball taking fright, dove to hide behind his master's legs.

"Ah-_ah_!" Vanin exclaimed triumphantly, taking a victorious pose with his staff. "This is what happens when strange looking stuffs spit dirty sticky fluids in my face!"

The Count coughed. "Hmm, if I may say, it would not have tried to do so if you had not started annoying it…"

"Are you implying it is my fault?" Vanin demanded, scowling.

"Yes, I am." The vampire replied, smiling. "And next time, Ontus, be nice and try to pick on creatures which don't destroy the masonry…"

"What?"

The Count gave an eloquent jab of his thumb toward the wall on which the creature's gob of spit landed. Except there was now a big hole in it, which continued to grow, hissing sinisterly.

Vanin's jaw dropped. "That stuff dissolves _stone_?!"

"Yes." Hassildor replied, examining the hole and collecting a bit of drool with his dagger. The blade immediately started to foam where it had touched the substance. "And metal as well, it seems. Now imagine what it could have done to the head of an old and unwise mage…"

"Ahahah, very funny..." Vanin mumbled weakly, staring at the damage.

"Right, enough playing around." Hassildor said as he dropped the dagger, lest he get any of the goo on himself. "We need to find Raksada. He will certainly be able to provide us with an answer for what is going on here…"

They continued up and down the corridors of the kraal. Everywhere they found the same scenes of Khajiiti guards battling hundreds of insects and other animals while courtiers and the other occupants of the palace ran around helplessly, screaming in fear.

Exertion began to catch up with the Count. He had put his heavy cloak back on to hide his face beneath the hood. Even if he doubted the Khajiits around here had ever seen a vampire – vampires not being very numerous around Elsweyr for obvious reasons – Hassildor considered it prudent, at least in the beginning, to hide signs of his true nature. Just in case. Sadly, its precaution was taking its toll on him, the cloak being _so darn heavy and hot…!_

Finally, they managed to locate the High Councillor in the quarters reserved for the members of government. Strangely enough, this aisle of the Palace seemed more affected by the invasion than the rest of the building. There was an impressive concentration of those strange slugs Vanin and Hassildor had met a little earlier, and the creatures were very busy drooling everywhere, despite the guards running through them with their spears.

"Ah! Ubasi Raksada…!" the Count started as he identified the grey skinned Dunmer yelling orders at a group of terrified guards. "I am glad we have finally found you, because we…"

Hassildor immediately stopped Raksada turned around to face him. The latter's features were a mask of hatred and anger, tinged with fear and – the vampire frowned – madness…

"_What do you want!?"_ Raksada spat in Hassildor's face, one corner of his mouth twitching nervously. The extremely urbane and civilised Raksada gave way to a much more violent and unstable individual.

Not thrown totally off balance, the Count sighed and grimly took out a small handkerchief from his sleeve, with which he wiped spit from the Dunmer's spluttering from his face. "Are you all right, sir?" Hassildor asked in a concerned voice. "You look… _distressed_."

"Yeah! What's the problem, lad? Are you insectophobic?" Vanin asked cheerfully from behind the Count. "Because my great Auntie Muriel had the same problem, you see, and she went to see that doctor and now she is not insectophobic anymore, but has this funny morbid fear of spoons…"

"I am perfectly fine, thank you for asking." Raksada hissed between gritted teeth. He seemed to have partially recovered himself, but something still lingered in the eyes. Something Hassildor did not manage to put a name to, but which he did not like much. "You'd better go back to your quarters, gentlemen. As you may have noticed, the palace is not really safe…"

The sentence was punctuated by the noise made by a piece of stone falling from a wall to the ground.

"Well, talking about _that_…" Hassildor started in a sweet voice.

He was interrupted by another sinister creaking noise, this time from above his head. All the people in the room looked upward.

Eaten into by the slugs' corrosive slime, the ceiling and some of the pillars started to crumbled away. It started with a bit of dust first, quickly followed by stones the size of a fist.

"Look out!" Vanin yelled.

But it was too late.

The roof collapsed completely and the last thing Hassildor saw before the corridor filled with a thick cloud of dust was Raksada uttering a scream and raising his arms above his head in a doomed-to-failure attempt to protect himself from the stone blocks falling on his head.

"Janus! Are you all right?" Demanded Vanin's panicked voice somewhere in cloud of dust. Around them, the guards were yelling orders while people banged into one another, being unable to see ten centimetres away.

"I'm fine!" Hassildor, half shouting, half coughing flailing his arms to wave away the dust. "Is Furball with you?"

"Whirf!"

"Yeah, he is! We're fine!" Vanin called back.

"Good!" Hassildor got up and tried to discern something in the cloud of dust – which soon proved impossible. The Count rolled up his sleeves and, muttering an incantation, made a complicated move with his hands. A light breeze started to blow and dispersed the cloud of dust, revealing the survivors and the scope of the disaster.

Several guards lay motionless on the ground, others whining and clutching injured limbs. The worst was standing in the middle of the corridor.

The roof had collapsed on Raksada, burying him under several tons of stone, and all that could be seen of the High Councillor was a dusty, bloody hand. (**2)**

"By the Nine!" Vanin exclaimed, horrified. "We need to get him out of there!" He rushed toward the stones to try to move them around, but strangely enough, his Khajiit companions did not seem very enthusiastic about giving him a hand.

Vanin stopped and look at them, dumfounded.

"But what are you waiting for? _For him to die?!"_

"Because…You think there may be a chance for him to _survive _that?!" A servant squealed, pointing at the heap of stones. The perspective clearly did not seem to please him much.

"We'll find out only if we move those stones!" Spat Vanin. "Now move your furry ass, damnit!"

"Well, is that really necessary…?" one of the guards asked, tapping on his chin with a finger thoughtfully.

Vanin looked at him with eyes like saucers. "Are you making fun of me? We can't leave him under there! It is failure to assist a person in danger!"

"No, it is failure to assist _a dead person_." The guard corrected stubbornly. "And I don't think zombies can sue you anyway…"

"I am afraid they can." The servant intervened. "Remember that story in Orcrest…?"

"Yeah, yeah." The guard admitted. "But in our case, I don't think there is enough left to be buried, so I guess a lawsuit is irrelevant, really…"

Vanin resisted the urge to slap himself in the face to make sure he was not dreaming. "Lord Hassildor, say something!" the mage exclaimed.

But the Count was not listening. He was glaring, fascinated, at the little pool of red dark liquid flowing out from under the stone, and in which Raksada's hand was bathing. He had to use all his willpower to resist the urge to jump forward and lap the blood straight from the flagstones.

"_You old fool…"_ he thought, cursing himself and clutching his hands nervously. He had waited too long to drink one of the phials of blood he had taken with him to Elsweyr to avoid feeding on the locals, and now, his vampire instincts were taking over – and he could not afford _that_.

Hassildor took a series of deep breath, trying to forget about the smell of blood snaking about him. He could not let himself act like the other vampires –a slave to his urges, acting like an animal. He had promised_ her_ he would not become like that_,_ and Count Janus Hassildor was a man of his word.

The Count blinked when he realised someone was shaking him by the arm.

"Lord Hassildor!" Vanin was saying. "The other arseholes won't do anything! I need your help to move the blocks!"

"Huh?" The vampire blinked again and suddenly seemed to realise the seriousness of the situation. "Oh! Right. What do you want to do?"

"Lift those darn stones with a levitation spell. I can't do that alone, but if we combine our forces, I think we can move them…"

Hassildor nodded, and trying to forget the metallic tang of blood tickling his nostrils, he took position by the heap of stones near Vanin.

"Oh, you should not go through so much trouble." The Khajiit guard interrupted, while his companions nodded approvingly and enthusiastically. "We will take care of that tomo – all right, I shut up now…" he added, cowering under Vanin's dark glower.

"Right." The old mage mumbled, returning his attention to Hassildor. "We need to start at the same time. At my signal. One, two…"

The stones started to move, shaking slightly, making Vanin frown. "Have you already started, my lord?" He asked Hassildor.

The Count shot the mage a blank look. "An interesting question I was just about to ask you, Ontus..."

The hall and everyone in it fell suddenly silent when green light started to radiate from under the stones. Suddenly, there was a powerful explosion which pulverised the blocks into another corridor-filling cloud of dust.

"Holy crap, what is that?!" Vanin yelled, protecting his face behind his arms.

The mage quickly got the answer to his question when the intensity of the light decreased and proved to be an aura emanating from the silhouette of Raksada.

Standing on a small pile of remaining rubble, the Dunmer was covered in blood and dust, but strangely enough he was not sporting any visible wounds. The Khajiits guards and servants present cowered and Vanin distinctly heard them whispering imprecations, among which the word "_bokor_" was repeated, but he did not pay much attention, busy gazing at the High Councillor, who seemed in good condition for someone who had just had several tons of stone land on his head.

"Impossible…" Hassildor whispered, looking a bit paler than usual.

Raksada nonchalantly pushed his blood-soaked curly hair behind his ears before shooting the assembly a sweet smile, apparently unaware of the awe he was generating.

"Well, gentlemen, what is that look for?" The Dunmer asked, unimpressed.

The remark was greeted by continued, flabbergasted silence, finally broken by Vanin. "What do you mean?! I don't know if you noticed, but you just got crushed by the stones of the roof and were _dead_!"

"Dead, me? A visibly hasty and mistaken conclusion, Master Vanin." Raksada said in his sugary voice. He then turned toward the Khajiit guards and servants who would have given anything to be somewhere else. "And what are you waiting for? Clean up this mess, you worthless loafers!" The Dunmer's hands again moved to smooth his hair.

The Khajiits hurried to obey, leaving the two Imperial and the Dunmer alone in the ruined corridor. Raksada's and the Count's eyes meet briefly, but unlike the first time it happened, Hassildor did not manage to outstare the High Councillor. The level of madness and malevolence in those eyes was more than he could cope with.

"How did you manage to survive that…?" Vanin whispered, his hands clutching his magic staff nervously.

"You'd better go back in your quarters, gentlemen." Raksada replied politely, brushing away the dust sticking to his skin because of the blood.

"But…!" Vanin protested. He stopped when he felt Hassildor's hand on his shoulder.

"High Councillor Raksada is right." The Count said slowly. "It has been a long day and I am sure our host has the situation perfectly in hand." he added in a tone full of meaning.

Raksada gave a little smile but did not reply as he bowed to the Imperial and turned his back to them, going after his Khajiit guards to continue giving orders.

"It is impossible…" Vanin whispered once he was sure they were out of Raksada's earshot. "You saw it! He should be _dead_…! How many tons of rock to the head? _He should be dead…!_"

"I know."

"And there was blood everywhere…" the mage babbled, still clutching his staff nervously. "He should be dead, Janus…! _Dead!_"

"Yes. But he is _not_." Despite the calm firmness in Hassildor's tone, the tight grip on Vanin's shoulder told a different story.

**(****1)** The Dark Guardians, also known as the "Gaks", are former necromancers' undead slaves who managed to break the link of servitude binding them to their necromantic masters.

Given their state doesn't really allow their to live a normal social life, they often seek refuge in the Dark Brotherhood, which happily offered them odd-job men's task – or rather, odd-dead-job men's jobs.

**(****2) **Narrative causality demands that when someone is buried under a huge pile of rocks of other building and heavy material, the hand remains visible. Preferably, it should be scratching the ground convulsively while a growling with a voice from beyond the grave something like "I'll be back!"


	13. The Joys of Economics

**Chapter 12**** – The Joys of Economics**

**Geeeez, it has been a while since I have connected on and uploaed something...O.o Inspiration fianlly came back. And now, I am off because I am sooo late in the reading of the fanfics I am following here...**

**Many, MANY thanks to Raven Studio for the awesome job she does as a Beta Reader. I really don't know how I could pay you back for that, girl !**

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"_The Moons, the Mane and the Moon Sugar formed an indivisible trinity on which most of the Khajiiti folklore and beliefs are based. One cannot hope to understand Khajiiti civilisation without having grasped the functioning of the Moons, _ja'Kha'jay_, without having realised the symbiotic relation between the Mane and his land, and without having tasted Moon Sugar._

… _Especially without having tasted Moon Sugar…"_

David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr".

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The Great Plaza before the kraal of Torval was packed with a colourful and noisy crowd of Khajiits.

Well, the Great Plaza was _always_ packed with a colourful and noisy crowd of Khajiits, but given today was market day, it was twice as colourful and noisy as usual. In addition, the preparations of Incosi Sha'ka's coronation were in full swing, resulting in hordes of servants and craftcats rushing toward the kraal to start their tasks for the day.

But of course, in Elsweyr, things were _never_ simple…

The gate of the kraal was not designed allow so many people to pass at once, and a huge queue had already formed at the entrance of the Palace. In addition, "queuing" was a completely unknown concept in Elsweyr, which explained why the guards of the kraal had so many difficulties in controlling the sudden flood of people wishing to get in – all at the same time, of course.

As a result, there were a lot of individuals shuffling about, arguments and – literally speaking – catfights.

Given the mess, no one paid particular attention to the strange duo composed of a Dunmer sitting on the ground and a young Altmer leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the great stairs, glaring at the show with very blasé looks on their faces.

"How come, wherever you are in this country, everything seems so bloody messy?" The Dunmer asked. Chewing nonchalantly a blade of grass, he kept scratching the big white bandage covering his nose.

"Bombassa says it is typical, given the Khajiit's customs and habits." replied his Altmer companion, shrugging.

"I mean, they are organising a coronation, right?" the Dark Elf, called Ralentu, continued ranting. "Back in Morrowind, this is very serious business and very well organised. You don't have people running everywhere like beheaded ducks and _fighting_…!" he added scornfully, as he watched two Khajiits trying to claw each other's eyes out, while guards tried with little success to separate them.

"I know. But you see, it is very likely that your awesome Dunmer organisation would seem very strange to any Khajiits. As Bombassa said, it is cultural." the Altmer repeated placidly, wincing as one of the tussling Khajiit evidently found someone else's claws. Claws sunk in _deep_, if the face the creature made was any indication.

"And the _goats_, they are cultural too?" Ralentu demanded sarcastically, pointing at the Palace gate, were a shepherd was trying to sneak in the palace with his herd, but was quickly betrayed by one of his animals when it wandered over and tried to chew on one of the guards' loincloth.

"Goats are very popular animals here in Elsweyr." Anirne explained as the guard started to screech at the shepherd, causing the goats to flee around in panic, causing more mayhem. She vaguely wondered if there was a way to sell tickets to this sort of spectacle, to rich foreigners. "They are the only farm animals able to feed on the very dried pastures of the country."

"And obviously, the marble flagstones of the Palace make a perfect pasture in terms of drought…"

"Don't be stupid, Ralentu." Anirne replied, sighing. "These goats are used to trim the lawn in the gardens."

The Dunmer pulled a face, disappointed not to have been able to corner the girl. "You always have an answer for everything, hey?" he asked, frowning.

"Yes." Anirne answered, still unruffled.

Ralentu did not reply, shooting the Altmer girl a sideways glance as he continued chewing his blade of grass. She was smiling into space and from time to time, she produced a burning aura around her head, making all the insects flying in the vicinity disappear in a little puff of ashes and a strong smell of burnt insect, which she seemed to enjoy.

Anirne had joined the group of mercenaries a few months ago and in a very short period of time had revealed to be quite an asset – such an asset that Bombassa, their Redguard leader, had quickly elevated her to one of his lieutenants, for several reasons past her apparent obliviousness to the suffering of insects.

First, Anirne was very clever, something rare enough in mercenary world. Second, she was extremely talented in magic. So far, nothing very unusual for an Altmer, except that Anirne was also barely fourteen and completely blind.

And _that_ made Ralentu very nervous.

According to him, fourteen years-old blind girls were supposed to stay home with mummy and daddy, play dolls, and cuddle cute little puppies. They certainly did not hang around with a bunch of blood-thirsty mercenaries, fighting as if she was actually able to see, finding amusement in burning people's houses to the ground _with the people still in them_, using swear words which made the most hardened soldiers blush to the roots of their hair, and negotiating like a horse trader when it came to share out the loot.

"I don't like this country." The Dunmer finally muttered, spitting his blade of grass away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I really don't. Everything always seems to get out of hand, and there are too many weird things happening around…"

"Are you referring to the strange phenomenon we saw last night?" Anirne asked.

"No, I was referring to the fantastic stew Bombassa cooked us for dinner. **(1)**" Ralentu commented caustically. "Of course I'm talking about that big green cloud we saw travelling through the savannah before it slammed into the kraal! What else?"

"No need to get angry! It is not my fault if it scared the shit out of you." Anirne responded.

Ralentu sniggered. "You didn't exactly pitch in to help, did you?"

"I had good reasons not to!" spat a rather vexed Anirne. "Anyone with a minimum of magical competence could have felt how powerful that thing was. But of course, it is not your case, Ralentu…" she added, recovering herself.

The Dunmer's face eloquently defined 'outrage'.

"After all, it's not _my_ fault if you _suck_ at magic." Anirne continued, sniggering.

"Well, one can't be a great mage_ and_ a genius of mechanics at the same time." Ralentu replied with a derisive sniff.

At the words, Anirne did her best not to roll her eyes.

Ralentu and his love for anything mechanical. The Dark Elf truly had the mind of an engineer, and all it took were two metallic shafts and a bolt for him to be both happy and occupied for _days_.

Even if she despised mechanics, Anirne had to admit Ralentu was good at what he did. There was no one like him to mend old Dwemer mechanical things, to create original and deadly devices or to get his kicks running over complicated specifications and bluepints for hours on end, praising the fantastic, innovative use the Dwemerfolk made of geothermic power.

Sadly, (though to Anirne's amusement) his oversized ego and delusions of grandeur often resulted in his creations ending in terrible explosions, which tended to slaughter enemies as well as allies – but never Ralentu himself. Despite his front-row seat – needed to operate the weaponry – he had some kind of incredible talent for_ always_ emerging from the wreckage alive, if smelling burnt, with little or no eyebrows left…

"Seriously Ralentu, I can't see anything brilliant in an activity which mainly consists in getting covered in dirty oil and almost killing us all, every time one of your great inventions inevitably _explodes_." Anirne said between gritted teeth.

"If you are thinking about the little issue with the Mantis of Doom, I reckon I made a slight mistake in the calculation in the rotation speed of the endless screw." Ralentu admitted. "Still, apart from that, it worked really well and…"

"Yeah, I was actually thinking about the 'little issue' with the Mantis of Doom," Anirne interrupted him, started to count on her fingers, "but also about the one with Millipede of Doom, the Ladybird of Doom, the Moth of Doom, the…"

"The Moth of Doom did its job perfectly well!" The Dunmer protested. "We managed to make a hole in the walls of the city, as planned!"

"What was _initially_ planned consisted in making a hole in the walls big enough for our troops to get in – not to make the ramparts collapse on us when your darn automaton exploded!" Anirne retorted grimly.

"You're unfair!" Ralentu whined, shaking his head sadly. "Nobody ever understands me. I guess it is the lot of all geniuses…"

"Whatever…" Anirne sniggered.

"You'll see." the Dunmer said, his eyes suddenly gleaming with excitement and a bit of madness. "My next invention, the Spider of Doom, will be a great success!"

"Yeah, and I'm Queen Barenziah – and by Auri-El, _stop scratching your nose or it will never heal_!" Anirne snapped.

Ralentu suspended his movement, automatically opening his mouth, ready to ask Anirne how could she _know_ he was scratching his bloody nose, blind as she was. But fortunately, the question died on his lips.

Quickly, the mercenaries of Bombassa's gang had learnt not to ask the girl this very question, and those who had not been quick enough to understand the Altmer was a bit touchy on the subject had all ended their lives as little piles of ashes.

"And why don't you mind your own business?" Ralentu growled.

"Because if you keep touching your bandage, you will only make things worst and I_ seriously_ have other things to do than listening to you squeaking in pain when I heal you!" Anirne snarled, her little lips curled up in anger.

Ralentu's eyes narrowed. He got up and put his face a few inches from the Altmer's, looking right into her eyes – which was kind of silly, given he had nothing to outstare.

"I don't squeak!" He spat. "And if by accident I did, it was because you really suck at restoration! I mean, come on! All I asked you was to heal my broken nose, but nooooooo! Miss I-am-so-talented-at-magic launched herself into a complicated and an incomprehensible speech about magical concentration and other blabla-bullshit to justify her incompetence!"

"It was not 'blabla-bullshit' and I am _not_ incompetent!" Anirne yelled in her high pitched voice, making some of the Khajiits around turn to stare at her. "Your cartilage was broken in so many pieces it was impossible to heal it _in one shot_. The too high concentration of magic would have turned it into a…a…a _ potato_ or even something worse – but actually, now I think of it, it would have been an _improvement_…!"

"And what does that mean, by _that_?" Ralentu blared.

"Ooooh because in addition of being _ugly_, you're also _dense_!" snarled Anirne.

Now, most of the Khajiits around them had momentarily stopped to stare. Like everybody else around Nirn and the Multiverse, they enjoyed street entertainment, especially when it was free and could culminate in a bloodbath…

"Repeat that if you're a man!" Ralentu fumed, taking from around his waist his favourite weapon, a chain ending in a heavy metal ball, which he started to make swirling around him dexterously.

"I _am_ a girl, you ass. And I still say, you are dense." Anirne replied, not impressed the slightest by Ralentu's show, but coming on guard nevertheless, a red aura appearing around both her hands.

Around them, the crowd of Khajiits started to cheer.

"Ten septims on the Altmer!" Exclaimed a seller of sausages from his market stall.

"Fifteen on the Ashborn!" Echoed the pancake vender.

While the bets were flying around in the crowd, the two mercenaries observed one another like cats eyeing unattended fish for a while. Then, at the very moment both were about to attack each other, an annoyed voice resounded on their right.

"Damn it! I can't leave you alone a _minute_ without finding you two bickeri…!" The voice did not finish his sentence before shrieking in surprise as Anirne and Ralentu attacked together – in his direction.

"Oh. Ooops!" exclaimed Anirne.

The two mercenaries stopped, speechless. Ralentu's metal ball lay where it fell on the ground, by the enormous still-smoking hole Anirne's fire ball attack had left in the sand, now vitrified by the heat of the attack.

But there was no trace of the person to whom the voice belonged…

"I'm over here, you morons." the voice growled from behind their backs.

Anirne and Ralentu turned on their heels at once to find themselves facing an angry Bombassa. His shaved head reflected the light of the sun so much it was almost painful to look at him, and the ruby which replaced his lost eye shone with a malicious gleam.

"Er… Look Bombassa, we can explain…" Ralentu started, making an appeasing move with his hands.

"Don't even try…." the Redguard mercenary commander interrupted him, scratching nervously the bandage he was wearing over the nose – one which very bore a strong similarity to Ralentu's. "And don't start accusing each other of starting this mess…"

At the words, Anirne and Ralentu automatically pointed at each other.

"_I said I didn't want to know who started it_!" Bombassa yelled.

Both arms lowered in a perfect harmony. Bombassa turned around to face the crowd of Khajiits who were still enjoying the show, most of them chuckling and grinning widely.

But the chuckles and giggles died when they saw the crest on the Redguard's coat of mail – a shield with a green background and ornamented with what looked like a contorted silver mask – and the atmosphere grew heavier when the crowd realised that Ralentu and Anirne were sporting the same crest, even if less prominently.

"Don't you have better things to do?" Bombassa growled, making an obvious move with his hand toward the hilt of his sabre. "The show's over, all right?"

The crowd broke up quickly, the people suddenly looking like they wished to be somewhere else. A few shot one last fearful glance at the crest before going back to their business.

"Fine. That's that." Bombassa said in a cough to his two lieutenants. "Now, move your asses. Urzob is waiting for us inside the Palace – Ubasi Raksada is done with his meeting with Incosi Sha'ka and wants to see us immediately."

"Oh the joy…" Ralentu whispered darkly as he and Anirne followed close behind the Redguard. "Have you come up with something to explain our massive failure at getting Ashar and her companions?"

Bombassa winced at the memory.

"Er…No. But I made the necessary preparations, in case we need to find a new employer soon." Bombassa replied, shaking a newspaper under the Dunmer's nose.

Anirne listened as a glaring Ralentu read the advertisement. _"The "Magnificent Four", Tamriel's most well-trained, most thorough and most awesome mercenaries, at your service. Very affordable prices (ten percent rebate on long term campaigns. For four razed villages, the fifth is offered free of charge)._

"Let's hope you made enough of them to wipe up what will be left of us after we tell Raksada Ashar escaped again and massacred half of our troops." Anirne said with a nervous giggle.

"Aaah, he is not _that_ bad…!" Bombassa replied with a dismissive move of the hand.

Bombassa ignored the meaningful, unconvinced silence passing between his henchmen, and strolled toward the Palace where, contrary to the rest of the Khajiits, he walked through the main doors without being stopped by the guards. Again, the sight of the crest on Bombassa's chest acted like a repellent to the Khajiits.

The trio continued to walk for a while in the corridors, which, to Ralentu's surprise, looked more than a battlefield than a corridor.

"Holy crap, what happened here?" Ralentu asked as he watched the builders who were working around, removing bits of masonry and trying to patch up holes in the walls. "Looks like a part of the Palace collapsed!"

"No one was really eager to explain me." Bombassa answered evasively. "But apparently, they had a little problem last night…"

"A little problem of a greenish and magical nature?" Anirne enquired, unerringly picking her way through the rubble, despite her useless eyes.

The Redguard did not reply. Instead, he waved toward a gigantic silhouette leaning against a wall still standing up. "Urzob!" Bombassa yelled. "We are heeeeere!"

The figure turned its head in the Redguard's direction and, slowly but surely, started to move toward the mercenaries. And when the silhouette started to move, it was like the whole palace started to shake.

Urzob, Bombassa's third lieutenant and the second female fighter of the quartet, blew all the cliché one could have on members of the weaker sex practising the art of fighting in a universe tainted with Heroic Fantasy.

To begin with, Urzob was an Orc, that is to say tall, strong and very green – hardly a hymn to femininity, one had to admit. Second, in addition of being naturally ferocious and built for fighting, she stubbornly refused to give into the fashion for female warriors around Tamriel which consisted of sexy and quite revealing chainmail bikinis, preferring to them her totally concealing ebony armour – much more convenient to prevent a blade driving into your flesh.

Globally, when Urzob moved around, her appearance and equipment gave the impression that a random iron wall was stretching its legs. But the visual effect was deceiving. Despite her imposing mass, the Orc could move extremely fast when needed and more than one opponent had discovered it to their expense – and too late – when Urzob's terrible double-headed axe cut them into two.

"Ah. Finally." Urzob grumbled as she stood right in front of Bombassa, her hands on her hips, dominating the Redguard by two good heads. "One has the time to die twice before you deigned to show up…"

"Sorry for that. We were…delayed." Bombassa replied, shooting a very dark glance at Ralentu and Anirne. "Where's Raksada?"

The Orc pointed at a door behind her with her thumb. "He just passed a moment ago and returned to his office." Her face darkened a bit. "Er, he looked quite pissed, if I may say." She added with a little cough. "I think his meeting with Incosi Sha'ka didn't go too well. I could hear Sha'ka screaming from the other side of the Palace…"

"Wonderful." Bombassa said between gritted teeth. If even Urzob was starting to fear the Dunmer, they were not out of the woods yet… "Well, let's go." he added with a clear lack of enthusiasm.

"Don't worry, Bombassa. We're right behind you." Anirne said encouragingly.

"_Far _behind you." Ralentu murmured. The mercenaries reluctantly moved toward the door and Bombassa knocked three times on it.

"Come in." said Raksada's voice.

With a little cough, Bombassa and his lieutenants complied at once and entered the office. Strangely, the room seemed to have been more spared than the rest of the Palace. The furniture was intact, as well as the columns and the walls.

In the middle of the room, Raksada was sitting on a _sella curulis_ – the only concession to Imperial style the exclusively-Dunmer decoration of his office made – his right arm leaning on his knee, the back of his hand supporting his chin. On his left, a table was covered in the spoils taken from the travellers by Bombassa's mercenaries, which his men brought to the palace earlier in the morning.

But the most striking piece of decoration of the room was the huge crest consisting in green shield ornamented with a contorted silver mask which was glaring at the mercenaries from the wall behind Raksada – the same crest sported by the mercenaries.

"My respects, O ubasi." the Redguard greeted Raksada, bowing stiffly before him. "I have come to make my report on out last mission."

While bowing, Bombassa stole a glance at the sitting Dunmer. The sight made him wince. As Urzob had said, the Raksada looked very tired and edgy, and what the Redguard was about to announce him was certainly not going to improve his mood…

"You took your time." Raksada hissed for greetings. "You came back to town yesterday and it's only now you show up?"

"I… had good reasons." Bombassa replied hesitantly, not wishing to explain those good reasons mainly consisted in getting his nose patched up by Anirne after his disastrous confrontation with Ashar.

"We shall see." Raksada said, drumming impatient fingers on the arm of his chair. "Now report."

Clearing his throat, Bombassa started his account. The more the story went, the chillier the metaphorical atmosphere was getting. The mercenary could see anger slowly building up in Raksada's red eyes.

"… and we finally reached Torval." Bombassa concluded in a polar silence. The mood temperature had reached historical law, and the metaphorical penguins showed the tip of their beaks.

"Right." The corners of Raksada's mouth moved up in a parody of smile while his eyes shot daggers at the mercenaries. "Right. If I sum it up, you are basically telling me that a group of well trained, equipped and _paid_ professional soldiers were routed by a teenager, an old codger, a pregnant woman, and…" at this point, Raksada's eyes narrowed dangerously "a_ toad_?"

"A toad with very sharp teeth!" Bombassa protested, showing Raksada a finger on which a scar left by tiny jaws was visible. Behind him, the Redguard heard Anirne slapping her forehead with her hand.

The High Councillor did not exactly seem to sympathise either. "I wonder what's preventing me from simply cutting off your darn finger before chopping up the rest of you as well?" Raksada replied in a soft, yet extremely threatening voice. "I have the strong feeling I am wasting my money on you."

"But we were not completely unsuccessful, O ubasi! We brought back quite a lot of gold and valuable items from our expedition, as you can see!" Bombassa exclaimed, showing to the Dunmer with an expansive wave of his arm towards the spoils on the table.

Raksada's eyes moved sideway toward the table, without enthusiasm. He nevertheless got up from his chair and started examining the objects – money, jewellery, magical weapons – disdainfully.

Then, his face contorted with rage and, with an angry move of the arm, he swept the whole trove onto the ground before turning toward the mercenaries.

"_I don't care about your stupid gold!"_ Raksada yelled, shaking a fist in anger. "You know what I want! So _where are_ _they_?!"

Bombassa's mouth turned very dry as some coins from the loot rolled at his feet, clinking gently as they fell onto their sides. The Redguard shot a quick glance at his lieutenants, looking for support, but they were all now strangely absorbed in the contemplation of the laces of their sandals.

"I… don't know, O ubasi." Bombassa said breathlessly. "We lost track of them after the attack."

The Redguard would have preferred Raksada to yell. To go on a bad fit of anger. Or to even hit him. Anything actually but seeing the Dunmer's face going ash-pale with rage, and his red eyes lightening with that nasty and wholly insane gleam. The sight chilled Bombassa to the bones.

'_He is completely mad… A total maniac…'_ the Redguard thought. Nothing totally unusual there as most of his previous employers were not all there, but now Bombassa was starting to realised Raksada beat them hollow, and easily.

"_You lost track of them_?" Raksada hissed, the eyelid under his left eye twitching dangerously.

"Yes, O ubasi." Bombassa said in a feeble voice. "The unexpected help our targets received left us totally…disorganised." _Painfully_ disorganized, but Bombassa didn't feel the need to share this.

A horrendous smile materialised on Raksada's face at the words. "The unexpected help of a pregnant woman and a toad left you '_disorganised'? _Seriously Bombassa, you have no idea how much you want to shut up _right now_!"

The mercenary gulped, and remaining carefully quiet as advised by the psychotic Dunmer, he watched the latter turning his back and walk back towards his chair. When he sat, Bombassa noticed that he still looked very angry, but that the gleam of instability in his eyes had disappeared.

"I am lacking the vocabulary to qualify your level of incompetence, Bombassa." Raksada growled, his nostrils still flaring with rage, but a saner rage, to Bombassa's relief. "And I hope you are conscious of this." The Dunmer paused, then sighed heavily. "However, given it would cost me too much time and money to hire new mercenaries and to put them in the picture, you will stay at my service. But shall you fail again, eternity won't be long enough for you to regret to have displeased me. Do you understand me?"

Bombassa felt his hands becoming very sweaty when he remembered the dismembered corpses hanging from Torval's city wall. They said Raksada loved pulling people's legs – as well as other limbs when he had them drawn and quartered by his Senches on the Great Plaza.

The heavy glances he could feel on the back of his neck told him his lieutenants were sharing his very thoughts at the moment.

"Yes I understand, O Ubasi." Bombassa squeaked. "Thank you, O Ubasi."

"And don't thank me, you moron!" Raksada barked, banging on the arm of his chair angrily. "I keep you because I don't have much choice! And I hope I don't have to make clear that the material damages your troops suffered during the assault will be your mess to clean up. You can be grateful I don't simply divide your wages by two – no, by _four_!" he added, shooting a nasty glance at the three lieutenants who cowered a bit. "I seriously hope you haven't spent too much of your cut."

Bombassa squeaked another "thank you" and Raksada rolled his eyes.

That would teach him to hire the cheapest mercenaries on the market! Such kind of "savings" never lead to anything good, he should know that after all this time…

Still, on paper the very unusual quartet the Four Magnificent formed sounded very interesting. First Urzob, the Orc who initially wanted to be a hairdresser but dropped her claims after realising cutting people's hair with an axe was not a good idea. Ralentu, the brilliant Dunmer mechanic who was so bad at magic his ashamed family banished him. Anirne, the young Altmer mage with pyromaniac tendencies who had "inadvertently" burnt down her home village. And of course, Bombassa the Redguard who was notoriously seasick – quite a handicap considering he belonged to a race whose main activity consisting in piracy…

A brief smile appeared on Raksada's face when he thought this bunch was unequalled in his Duchess' court, but the smile disappeared quickly when he remembered the situation he was engulfed in…

Obviously, his plans were delayed. _Again_.

Dear, it was becoming chronic – like the headaches, the terrible fits of anger of Incosi Sha'ka gave him. The Khajiit lord was growing impatient and had made clear during their last meeting he would not tolerate the remaining pockets of rebels defying him anymore, or assaulting his kraal with their twisted magics, like last night…

The trouble was that Raksada had better things to do at the moment than taking care of Sha'ka's problems – the Ultimate Resonator had to be finished on time. The device was, after all, the main objective of his Master's grand plan. In addition, when it would be operative, it would have the miraculous property to completely and _definitely_ solve of the problems Raksada was faced with – including Sha'ka.

Raksada chuckled inwardly. To think the fool imagined the Resonator was going to be the instrument of his domination over all Tamriel…

So, there was no need to have several irons in the fire, even if some threats had to be eliminated quickly – Ashar and Hassildor, to name them_._ The rest could wait, but given Raksada still needed Sha'ka's help to provide the necessary workforce for the Resonator, he somehow had to keep playing the faithful councillor and servant and comply with his master's wishes.

Ah dear, what to do, what to do…?

Raksada scowled as he continued to glare in silence at the very unlikely lot of mercenaries, who were now looking very small and were carefully trying not to look at him.

"Bombassa?" the Dunmer finally asked, and the mercenary almost jumped at the mention of his name.

"Yes, O ubasi?" he asked timidly.

"Your troops will leave the city tomorrow to search for the fugitives. Within four days, you will come back to Torval. With their heads."

Bombassa's jaw dropped, and despite the fear the Dunmer inspired him, he could not help but protest. "Four days? With all due respect, Ubasi…"

"_Four_ days." Raksada repeated, showing Bombassa a hand with four fingers raised.

"Yes, O ubasi." Bombassa whispered, trying to ignore the killing glance Urzob, Ralentu and Anirne where shooting him in his back.

"Good. In the meanwhile, I…"

The Dunmer abruptly stopped. His sandal bumped against something metallic, and his eyes almost immediately widened in shock and surprise.

"Er… Ubasi?" Bombassa ventured politely.

Raksada did not reply. He was still gazing, fascinated, at the little necklace which had landed on the ground after Raksada had scattered the loot from the table.

Bombassa beamed, delighted his employer finally found something of interest in the loot they brought. "Oh, you have noticed that one too, O ubasi?" The mercenary started enthusiastically. "A rather curious piece of jewellery if I may say… Anirne has identified the curious floral motives engraved on it as a Deadly Nightshade."

"No." Raksada said in a soft voice, picking up the necklace and bringing it before his attentive eyes. "No. This particular plant is not a mere Deadly Nightshade. It is called belladonna – or _belladone_ in Breton."

"Another dangerous variety of the plant?"

"The most lethal one…" Raksada said in a whisper, finally managing to tear himself away from the contemplation of the necklace. He looked shaken and the realisation made Bombassa feel slightly ill at ease. Since when was Raksada _shaken._..?

"Where did you find it?" The Dunmer continued, his eyes riveted on the Redguard, whose uneasiness intensified.

"With the rest of the loot, that it to say around the camp we attacked, O Ubasi."

Raksada bit his lower lip, obviously preoccupied. "And from whom did you take it?"

"Hard to tell, actually. It was nighttime and…"

"_To whom did this belong?!"_

Without understanding what was happening to him, Bombassa found himself pinned against one of the walls, his feet dandling in the air and his throat in a stranglehold. He blinked. Raksada was suspending him at least twenty centimetres above the ground just with one arm, while his second hand was clutching the necklace nervously.

Darn… The Dark Elf was as thin as a rake but had the strength of ten men!

"You'd better remember quickly, Bombassa._"_ Raksada chuckled in an evil way. "My patience is wearing thin." he added, accentuating the pressure of his fingers on the man's jugular.

"I… really… don't know…" the Redguard gargled. His throat was really starting to hurt and despite his efforts, he remained unable to remove the Dark Elf's grip on his throat.

_Mad… Completely mad…_

Behind the Dunmer, Bombassa could see Anirne, who had stuck her hands over her mouth in horror. As for Ralentu, he was goggling at the scene, obviously not knowing what to do. Only Urzob kept a semblance of calm as she walked toward duo.

"Er, I do apologise for the interruption, ubasi, but we have come to think it is the woman's necklace." the Orc said with a polite cough.

Raksada's gaze fall upon on Urzob, who did her best to continue to look totally serene.

"The woman? What woman?" the Dunmer snapped.

"The young, pregnant woman who fled with Ashar, ubasi. Anirne found the necklace where Bombassa and her fight." Urzob explained.

Raksada's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure she was _young_ and _pregnant_?" the Dark Elf insisted, riveting his eyes to the Orc's.

"Yes, ubasi." Urzob confirmed. The Orc gave a little cough, shooting a meaningful look at Bombassa. The Dunmer followed her gaze. The chief of the mercenaries was gaping for air and his eyes were rolling upward.

Urzob's revelation made Raksada look thoughtful and he absently dropped the Redguard on the floor. Ralentu and Anirne ran toward Bombassa and helped him to get back on his feet.

"That woman…She was Breton, right?" Raksada asked Urzob, scratching his chin with his forefinger.

The Orc looked surprised, but was clever and prudent enough to keep her questions to herself. "I did not fight her, nor see her myself, but this is what Bombassa and Ralentu said."

"And was she travelling alone?"

"Well, if we don't count her cannibal toad, yes O ubasi."

The expression of incredulity on Raksada's face became gradually with one of calm resignation, the kind of "calm" Urzob had learned to fear…

"_The __calm before the storm."_ She thought as she carefully stepped back from the Dunmer, expecting another fit of anger.

But the latter did not explode in rage. He simply gave a heavy sigh and turned toward the Redguard mercenary who was still trying to get his breath back.

"Bombassa?" Raksada asked.

"Ubasi…?" The still shocked Redguard croaked, still held on his feet by Anirne and Ralentu.

"Change of plan. You and your men should get ready for an imminent departure to accompany _me_."

"Ac…company you… where…O ubasi?"

Raksada's eyes narrowed again as he looked at the necklace he was still holding in his hand and a thin smile materialised on his dark grey lips.

"I don't know yet, but I will find out very soon…"

7777777777777777

From her window, Princess Naandi watched the four silhouettes of the mercenaries hurrying down the Great Stairs before disappearing into the crowd packed in the Great Plaza. She tightened the grip of her hand on the curtain at the sight. The Magnificent Four's return did not bode well…

The female Khajiit turned around swiftly when she heard the door of her apartment open slowly to let a small, huddled figure in.

"So?" The princess asked M'thunzi, her personal servant, but also her spy within the kraal's walls.

"Raksada's mercenaries came back." the old female Khajiit replied, and Naandi uttered an impatient growl at the obvious statement.

"I know. I saw them." The Princess replied curtly. "_So_? Did you manage to listen to their conversation?"

M'thunzi chuckled. "I did, O Naandi – as did the rest of the kraal when our beloved Raksada voiced his anger at the _Inefficient_ Four's newest failure."

Naandi sighed and collapsed gracefully on one of the big cushions on the floor, obviously relieved. "Thus, Ashar managed to get away from them – once again..."

"Once again, yes…Ashar is a very resourceful warrior. I trained her well." M'thunzi commented with an appreciative expression on her face. "Even if, this time, she received a little help during her last encounter with Bombassa and his gang of butchers."

The princess shot an inquisitive look at her informant to which the latter replied with a shrug. "I have not been able to determine who this person might be exactly. All I know is that she is a pregnant woman." M'thunzi stopped and chuckled again. "With a toad."

Naandi raised a surprised eyebrow. "A rather unexpected kind of help, if I may say."

"Better than nothing, I guess."

"Talking about unexpected help…" Naandi started, frowning slightly. "Have you finally managed to approach Count Hassildor and Master Vanin?"

M'thunzi winced and shook her head. "Not yet. Since the little _incident _overnight, Raksada has them watched most carefully by his minions. I believe our favourite Dunmer revealed more to them than he intended last night, and that now he fears to have lost the benefit of surprise."

"And is he right to fear so?" Naandi asked.

"One should not underestimate the men who played so great a part in Dagon's fall, and who defeated the King of Worms. Raksada may be mad, but he is no fool." M'thunzi felt it wise to remind the Princess of this fact.

"Fool or not, Raksada is a traitor." Naandi growled, her tail lashing angrily. "This repugnant manipulative creep will die at my hand for the trouble he has brought to Elsweyr."

"A rather bold statement, Princess." M'thunzi observed softly. "For Raksada seems immune against death..."

"Let me tear his heart out of his chest, and we will see!" Naandi responded proudly.

"I doubt Raksada has anything one could call a heart." the old Khajiit replied with an ironic smile. "Besides, if tons of rock falling on his head can't kill him, I think he would regard a missing organ as a rather minor inconvenience..."

"So what then?!" Naandi exclaimed impatiently as she got up from the cushion and started pacing angrily in the room. "We just stay here and watch him turning Khajiits into slaves for his pet-project?!"

"Obvioulsy not." M'thunzi replied in an appeasing voice. "But Raksada is a powerful _magical_ foe, and thus we need _magic_ to defeat him – something both of us can't achieve."

At the words, Naandi's eyes moved toward the Tenmar Forest, a move which did not go unnoticed by M'thunzi.

"Mama Sam's little show last night was certainly extremely impressive, I agree," the old Khajiit started as she joined Naandi by the window, "but she can't beat Raksada – and she knows it, or else she would have long ago come out of Tenmar to get rid of him."

A sour expression flashed on Naandi's face, indicating to M'thunzi the princess got her point, but it was quickly replaced by a victorious smile. "But Raksada has not gone to Tenmar to get rid of her either!" Naandi exclaimed victoriously. "So, he may fear her as well?"

"Maybe…" M'thunzi whispered. She remembered the expression of fear and loathing on the Dunmer's face the night before, when she went to his apartments to bring him lamps. Something was obviously disturbing Raksada in the Forest of Tenmar, but was it Mama Sam… _or something else…?_

"But whatever Raksada's reasons for avoiding Tenmar, Mama Sam would never agree to help us anyway." M'thunzi continued, putting her thoughts on the matter aside for the moment. "Not after what she went through when Mane Thenj'Iwe declared her practice of Foodoo _taboo_…"

"Well, she hates Raksada as much as we do, doesn't she?" Naandi asked, but not sounding very convinced.

The remark made M'thunzi roaring in laugher. "'Foes of my foes are my friends', is that what you are thinking? I doubt Mama Sam thinks that way." She sniggered and became serious again. "She hates Raksada indeed, but what make you think she doesn't hate _us_even more…?"

"What about the Clan Mothers, then? " Naandi ventured with a touch of hope in her voice, reporting once again her attention on the forest of Tenmar visible in the distance. "After all, like Those-Who-Watch in Corinthe, they are supposed to protect the people of Elsweyr…"

"And like Those-Who-Watch, they won't move a finger." M'thunzi replied, once again shattering Naandi's hopes into pieces. "Now you are grasping at straws. The Clan Mothers have always played a game of their own. What truly matters to them is their grip over the production of Moon Sugar. Neither Sha'ka nor Raksada is threatening them at all on that matter." Her eyes narrowed and a nasty smile appeared on her face. "I would even say they regard Raksada with a benevolent indifference I find rather disturbing…" Naandi sighed and walked back toward the centre of the room. "So, if I understand all this, it leaves us pretty much on our own…" She said, passing a weary hand over her face.

"If we can't make the Imperial emissaries our allies, yes. We are on our own." M'thunzi agreed thoughtfully. "Things would have been different if the Virgins of Dagomey were still alive."

Naandi smiled. "There are still two of them…"

"Yes, Ashar and I." M'thunzi replied in a cold voice. "You can't be counted as one as you turned your back to us when you decided to mate with Sha'ka and let him _live _afterwards. Don't you remember?"

Naandi snarled and shot a menacing look to M'thunzi, but the latter return the glare blankly, without batting an eye.

What else to expect from the Master Spy of the now almost extinct Virgins of Dagomey? M'thunzi had trained her sisters in the art of fighting for more than half century and, apart from Naandi and the rulers of their clan, no one had ever known the true nature of her activities.

"You despise me, don't you, M'thunzi?" Naandi said softly.

The old Virgin of Dagomey shot the princess a sly look not totally devoid of amusement. "Yes, I do. But given the circumstances, I am clever enough to try to make the best of a bad job," she purred. "Still, if it had not been for Mane Thenj'Iwe's interdiction to do you no harm, I would have killed you long ago. But now the Mane is gone and the fact remains, Naandi, that you betrayed Thenj'Iwe and your sisters. All for the love of male, who is ready to sacrifice your son on the altar of his ambitions. And there is a price to pay for that…" M'thunzi finished quietly.

The two Khajiits glared silently at one another during a long moment of profound, icy silence.

"I may not be the sharp and dangerous fighter I used to," Naandi said, breaking the silence but not the eye contact, "and you may not trust me. But I still have resources."

"And what kind of resources is left in you, now the Virgin and the woman in love are gone?" M'thunzi teased her.

The Princess' lips tightened, and, finally taking her eyes away from M'thuzi's grey ones, she looked at her Dagomey Razor hung on the wall. "A mother's." she breathed.

7777777777777777

The big creature circled slowly in the muddy water of the mouth of the Quin'rawl River in the Topal Sea, its senses alert. It was on the hunt and the other sea animals swimming around it knew it – which explained why they carefully tried to stay out of its way.

But exceptionally, they actually had nothing to fear from the great predator. It was definitely not interested in the small provender any of them could present, compared to what was about to come from above the surface.

The creature continued its progression slowly before it stopped. Then, it swam round lazily, waiting.

And then the signal came. Very softly first, then louder and louder.

Satisfied, the creature continued its concentric circles, but slowly began to rise, up toward the surface.

All it needed was a bit more patience. Interesting things were going to happen.

Above the surface, interesting things were already happening.

"All right… What he is doing there exactly?" Lucien Lachance asked Fog Marley as he watched one of the guards who, bending over a gigantic pool and blowing in a horn which nozzle ended in the water, was producing a lot of bubbles in the water. "Is that another barbaric and mysterious custom you Khajiits enjoy so much?"

Fog slowly took the nozzle of his portable_ narguile_ out of his mouth, shooting the Imperial a blank look. As usual, the sarcasm had drawn into the vapours of Skooma. "Naaaah, nothing weird, man. He's just calling _them_."

"Oh yes. Obviously. He is just calling _them_. Of course." Lucien repeated dully, glaring at the Rastajiit to make him elaborate on the subject. His well-practiced glare was in vain. Fog was already back into his own world full of Skooma and Rastajiit nonsense.

Shrugging in annoyance – and waking up Polly the parrot, who was once more dozing on his shoulder – Lucien turned toward J'Ghasta, but his Khajiiti friend seemed to have his mind elsewhere as well.

"_Or rather, Elsweyr, ahahaha…"_ the Imperial thought, before realising he had just made one of the most hackneyed jokes in Nirn.(**2**) But joking apart, J'Ghasta's sudden silence revealed a lot on his current state of mind.

They had arrived at Ya'Tirrje's palace at dawn that morning, and the least that could be said was the reunion between the Gold Cat and J'Ghasta had not ended in a bloodbath.

Oh, Ya'Tirrje had been rather friendly first – or, Lucien corrected himself, he had not been openly hostile. But compared to Fog who had been genuinely happy to see his old friend again, Ya'Tirrje's attitude had soon become much more _equivocal. _Lucien could not say exactly how he achieved this, but every sentence from the Gold Cat seemed double-edged – and Lucien held no doubt that both those edges were extremely sharp.

In addition, and so far, Ya'Tirrje had not mentioned the 'deal' Fog Marley mentioned the day before, and this too was making Lucien feel ill-at-ease. It was already late in the morning, so why was the Gold Cat beating around the bush?

This feeling of dependency on other's people good – or bad – will was something totally new and extremely disturbing for Lucien Lachance, the manipulative Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood and great mastermind of many cunning plots. Normally, he was the puppeteer, not the puppet! He found the reversal..._disturbing_ to say the least.

Lucien sighed inwardly and tried hard to find a semblance of internal serenity. More than the Khajiits and their strange customs, more than this country and its darn hot weather, it was finding himself tossed about by events rather than controlling those events which truly unnerved him. The whole process started the day Trencavel had kicked him in the groin, and it did not look like it was going to stop anytime soon. Convenience let him blame her for his current predicament, but it did little to ease his unease.

And now Ya'Tirrje and his retinue had brought them here, in the gardens, waiting for the Gods-know-what to happen.

"Er, J'Ghasta?" Lucien asked in cough, trying to attract the Khajiit's attention.

J'Ghasta blinked and finally left his daydreaming, turning toward his friend. "Sorry, you were saying…?"

"Would someone mind explaining me what the guard over there is doing?" Lucien asked between gritted teeth, pointing at the huge pool standing in the middle of the luxurious gardens of the Gold Cat's villa. "He's been blowing in that stuff for ten minutes now…"

"Oh, that." J'Ghasta replied nonchalantly. "He is just calling _them_ – what? What did I say?" he added when Lucien rolled his eyes.

"Them _what_?" the Imperial barked, ignoring good grammar in order to drive the point home. "Sharks? Dolphins? _Mermaids_?"

"No. No dolphins live in the waters of the mouth of the Quin'rawl – nor even sharks, actually. It is far too dangerous even for them…" J'Ghasta announced dismissively.

Lucien made a blank face. "Ahah. Very funny."

"This is no joke, Lucien. There are no sharks here. The Unnameables would not tolerate another predator on their territory." J'Ghasta explained.

The Imperial frowned. "The _Unnameables_?"

His question was punctuated by a scream so piercing it even took Fog out of his Skooma-soaked reverie. The trio turned around to face the pool, just in time to see the spectators surge in disorder from the lake where, to Lucien's greatest horror, a huge tentacle emerged then splashed back in the water.

"By Si… the Nines, what is _that_?" the assassin demanded, starting to retreat behind J'Ghasta as a big translucent eye appeared above the surface before the muddy waters swallowed it up again.

"_Them_." Fog replied with a big grin, obviously very amused by Lucien's reaction.

"The Unnameables, if you prefer." J'Ghasta clarified in a casual tone as he watched several tentacles flying in the air. "No one knows where exactly they come from, as they're pretty unique. Some pretend they're mutant creatures brought here or maybe 'created' by the few Ayleid explorers who visited the region centuries ago…"

"Why on Nirn does everything the Ayleids touched turn into something ugly, lethal or all of the above?" Lucien whined as more tentacles appeared in the pool – the first Unnameable had been met by the rest of his little full-of-appendages family.

"_Ayleid crackeeers!"_ Polly screamed happily.

"Don't know." J'Ghasta replied with a smile. "But funnily enough, they remind me a bit of that huge squid we met in that parallel universe..."

"I wish you hadn't mentioned that." Lucien grumbled. "And could you explain me why anyone would like to have such creatures as pets in an ornamental pond?"

J'Ghasta shrugged, but Fog came to the rescue. "Because they're useful." The Rastajiit intervened in between two puffs of his _narguile_.

Lucien blinked. "Are they?"

"Ayya, man. And it's time to feed them." Fog nodded, taking another puff. "Just watch."

At the words, Lucien's eyes moved onto a Khajiit who was standing nearby the pool, surrounded by several guards. Of all the people gathered in the gardens, he was the only one who looked rather gloomy. Probably because he was chained and had heavy weights tied to his feet…

"Don't tell me…" the assassin said, wincing when understanding struck him. "They're not planning on giving the Unnameables dried daphnias, hey?"

"Well spotted, man." Fog observed. "And Ya'Tirrje likes his Unnameables to be fed on a regular basis."

"How kind of him…"

Lucien's eyes moved from the prisoner soon-to-be snack of the Unnameables to the colossal silhouette sprawling – that annoying habit Khajiits had to always _sprawl_ when resting – on a richly decorated litter full of silky cushions and surrounded by many gorgeous females.

Probably because Ya'Tirrje used to be a friend of J'Ghasta when the two were still kittens, Lucien had imagined the Gold Cat looked like another version of his friend, that is to say another tall, imposing and athletic Khajiit.

Well, even if Lucien was quite right on the imposing bit, their age and their amazing sense of business were certainly the _only_ things J'Ghasta and Ya'Tirrje had in common…

"So, my dear S'Baad…" said Ya'Tirrje, the Gold Cat, the unofficial ruler of Senchal, the leader of the SyndiCat, the most powerful merchant and smuggler of the south of Elsweyr if not of the whole country...was also _the_ fattest creature Lucien had even seen. Even his double chins had double chins. "It is time for us to part ways."

"Please, O Gold Cat, wait…!" the Khajiit named S'Baad whined.

A sorry sigh lifted Ya'Tirrje's huge chest covered in dozens of gold necklaces – the Khajiit was covered in golden jewellery, which certainly accounted for his nickname and also made him hard to look at in the sunlight.

But it did not matter how golden this particular cat was, he reminded Lucien strongly of that feline he knew as a child. The thing had grown so fat that, when it had been thrown by Big Tommy, its owner, over the ramparts in an attempt to see if it would fall back on its legs – a typical cruel experiment kids enjoyed – all was left of it on the ground was a large grease stain.

But if Big Tommy's cat had grown fat because its young master had no idea how dietetics worked, Ya'Tirrje obviously did not have a master and Lucien could only wonder how what certainly used to be a normal Khajiit turned into half a ton of lard tied up in a fur coat.

Too many copious business lunches perhaps…?

Lucien's eyes widened in horrified realization that the Black Hand now made a habit of such lunches, now J'Ghasta was in charge. He could not help but let his hands discreetly check around his waist and abs, searching for any disgraceful and unwanted folds.

"Oh, please S'Baad. Let's cut the hysterics, shall we?" Ya'Tirrje asked in a kind voice, unaware of the mini personal drama Lucien was living a few feet away. "Perhaps you have a last word, something for posterity...?"

The Khajiit prisoner looked down at the thick and brown waters of the pool shaken by the convulsions of the Unnameables' tentacles and gulped once more. "Mercy…?"

"Ah, I am sorry, but I am afraid this option is not available." Ya'Tirrje said cheerfully, lazily waving one of his fat paws. Two of his guards grabbed the prisoner by the elbows and dragged him with difficulty to the pool. S'Baad turned around and shot the Gold Cat a last imploring look.

"I strongly advise you to take a long and deep breath, S'Baad." Ya'Tirrje said with a large smile. "I think you will find it _amazingly_ more useful than trying to make me change my mind."

The Gold Cat gave another flick of the paw, and the prisoner was thrown into the pool. The latter did not even had the time to scream before the muddy waters enveloped him.

First, there was nothing, apart from a few bubbles piercing the surface. And suddenly, the salty water started to foam and to spurt when the Unnameables swarmed over each other to get their prey.

"So, what do you think of our legal system, _bwala_?" the Gold Cat asked airily.

Lucien tore himself away from the gruesome yet fascinating show to realise that, too engrossed by it, he had not noticed that Ya'Tirrje's litter had moved and was now standing by his side.

"Very… _expeditious_." Lucien said softly as he looked back at the cloud of blood flourishing on the surface of the water. He was a murderer, and did not mind the sight of blood and death, but the show of the Khajiit being served to those repulsive creatures had made him somewhat sick.

That and the fact he was certain this little demonstration was hardly meaningless…

"We prefer to say _efficient_, _bwala_." Ya'Tirrje giggled softly. "It is with such measures Senchal has become the great city it currently is."

"Certainly." Lucien commented diplomatically.

The Gold Cat smiled, but his amber eyes circled with kohl observed Lucien carefully. The latter determined to show Ya'Tirrje he was not impressed, managed a rather bored look of apathy. Outstaring a cat was never an easy task, but Lucien had decades of training with J'Ghasta, so he did not flinch.

"Right. Now that little affair is solved," the Gold Cat said in a business-like voice and breaking off eye contact to Lucien's greatest pleasure, "I suggest we start tackling the reason for your presence here today, but before – would you like a larva? They're extremely tasty."

The obese feline clapped his hands in a concert of jangling bracelets and one of the numerous female Khajiits materialised as if by magic in front of Lucien, J'Ghasta and Fog with a dish full of white, wriggling things.

Lucien's mind suddenly flooded with memories of his nightmarish journey in the jungle and of the insect diet there as well. His stomach gave a flip. "Er… No thanks." He said with a forced smile. "I am… on a diet. But I could with peanuts. For the parrot."

"_Peaaanuts!" _The bird squawked hopefully as Lucien rubbed beneath its beak with a knuckle.

J'Ghasta shot his friend a quizzical look, obviously puzzled by the "diet" bit, but Lucien carefully ignored him.

"Well, you don't know what you are missing, _bwala_." Ya'Tirrje said with a sigh as he, J'Ghasta and Fog helped themselves to generous handfuls, while a second servant produced a bag full of peanuts, which she gave to Lucien. "And now, I would like to show you something. This way, please."

The Gold Cat snapped two fingers full of golden rings and four Khajiit servants rushed to each corner of the litter. Lucien felt a pinch of sympathy for the litter-bearers when they lifted the affair with grunts of effort.

Followed by the rest of Ya'Tirrje's retinue, the litter took a small path leading out of the luxurious gardens directly to the busy streets of Senchal, with its usual procession of goatherds, merchants, and pickpockets, all of which contributed to a smell unlike any other, which would have made a three-days dead donkey faint.

Despite the total anarchy which reigned in the streets, the people always moved apart when the cortege came in their direction, and all showed signed of deference to the Gold Cat, who seemed to appreciate these in a very self-satisfied manner.

_Catlike_, Lucien though grimly. _House-catlike_. Lucien was by now growing bored, beginning to wonder if the "deal" mentioned was real and if the whole show had not been designed to make an impression J'Ghasta and himself.

The Imperial changed his mind quickly.

As they continued, a troop of soldiers suddenly materialised at one street corner. Instead of drawing aside for the Gold Cat's retinue, the guards continued to walk right in the middle of the street, forcing Ya'Tirrje's people to retreat against the walls. And they did not hesitate to snub the Gold Cat's henchmen by shooting the latter jeering looks.

Lucien and J'Ghasta exchanged a surprised glance as the cortege started to move again, then looked at Fog. But the latter avoided their gaze so they kept their questions to themselves, waiting for Ya'Tirrje to give them an explanation. The explanation came as a question.

"Have you seen the guards?" the Gold Cat asked Lucien and J'Ghasta softly once the troop was behind them.

"Hard to miss them…" Lucien replied, looking backwards at the guards' back. He frowned, his keen mind already counting off the seconds it would take to put a dagger between the ribs of the last member of the troop – six – and that without the cover of darkness, with the element of surprise, this was not a good time to do anything about them. Assuming he wanted to, of course. Old habits die hard, and to an assassin, everything _might_ be a target, but fewer are so unfortunate as to _become_ a target. "Why don't they wear the same livery as the other guards of the SyndiCat?"

"Simply because they do not belong to the SyndiCat. They are guards sent here by the authorities of Torval to keep an eye on our activities – and to make sure we pay the newly imposed, ridiculously exorbitant taxes."

Ya'Tirrje's voice was almost perfectly composed – almost, because the tiny little trace of anger in it did not go unnoticed by Lucien.

"And why would the Mane do such a thing?" J'Ghasta wondered, scratching his chin. "I thought Mane Thenj'Iwe saw your politics in Senchal in a good lig…"

"There's no more Mane, J'Ghasta." the Gold Cat interrupted him bluntly. "The much revered Bhek'Iziwe Nowalzi Thenj'Iwe was toppled a few months ago," he continued, imperturbable as J'Ghasta's jaw dropped and Lucien frowned, "the Staff of Moons was destroyed and the identity of Mane's successor – if he's even still alive – remains a complete mystery."

The piece of news was met by a sceptical silence. Lucien's gaze moved back and forth from J'Ghasta to Ya'Tirrje. The later did not show any kind of emotions past a mild disregard for J'Ghasta's ignorance of his homeland's political situation, it was not a reaction shared by J'Ghasta, who suddenly looked like he had hit the jackpot.

"You just say that to please me, don't you, Ya'?" the Khajiit assassin asked with a fixed smile on his face.

"No, I don't." the Gold Cat whispered. "I thought you knew, despite the fact Ocato and the Council are trying to hold back that morsel information."

"They were rumours of 'things' happening in Elsweyr, but very little information actually lipped into Cyrodiil recently." Lucien confirmed as he felt his mood darkening a bit more. So, they were stuck in a country right in the middle of what looked like a tricky political situation. Things were getting better and better…

"And what do you mean exactly by 'no more Mane'? He got killed, did he?" A rather pleased looking J'Ghasta asked. His fixed smile had turned into one of total joy.

"This is the one million-septims question – because no one knows the answer to that." Ya'Tirrje replied with a shrug. "To be honest, the exact circumstances of the event remain unclear, even if we have been provided with an…_official_ version."

The way the Gold Cat pronounced the word "official" was quiet revealing of the nature of his thoughts regarding the aforementioned version. He snapped his fingers, and a bowl full of larvas appeared in front of him. "From what has filtered from Torval," Ya'Tirrje continued while peeling an insect, "the Virgins of Dagomey, the Mane's personal guards, have turned against him for, apparently, not having respected a tradition of theirs. As a result, the regular troops had to step in to protect Thenj'Iwe. But sadly, they failed and Thenj'Iwe was declared dead – even if no one so far had been able to find the Mane's mortal remains…"

"Ah, bah! Who cares?" J'Ghasta exclaimed happily.

"_I_ do." Ya'Tirrje replied curtly. "Like most of the faithful people of Elsweyr who, unlike you, respect the traditions." He added with a little smirk, earning a killing glance from J'Ghasta. "But whatever you may have thought of Thenj'Iwe, you will admit that this version is rather… _unsatisfactory_."

"And what about the _satisfactory _one then?" Lucien asked.

An amused smiled flashed across Ya'Tirrje's thick chops. "Straight to the point, hey, _bwala_? I like that." The Gold Cat replied, amused. "Well, the version which is accepted by ninety percent of the Khajiits in Elsweyr is that the Mane was betrayed by his closest advisors, who got rid of him and of all his supporters, Virgins of Dagomey included."

"Classical – even if no one had ever dared to play such a trick on the Mane and the Virgins before. Quite an achievement, really…" J'Ghasta said casually as the cortege re-entered the gardens of the Gold Cat's villa. "And who are those 'closest advisors' I would love to congratulate...?"

Ya'Tirrje winced. "I don't think you would actually."

"Why not?" J'Ghasta asked, surprised.

For the first time, the Gold Cat looked hesitant. "Well, because their leader is not one of your greatest friends."

"Which means…?"

The Gold cat let a pink tongue running along his teeth and finally took the plunge. "Sha'ka is the one behind the coup."

J'Ghasta froze and looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. His eyes widened in shock and he had to lean against a tree to stay up right.

"If I may say, Ya'," Fog intervened as he walked toward a shocked J'Ghasta and patted him gently on the shoulder, "I thought we both agreed we had to tackle this issue with _care_…"

Ya'Tirrje shrugged but did not otherwise reply.

Lucien was ready to bet the crime lord took pleasure in J'Ghasta's reaction. The Imperial did not know much about the interactions between the two Khajiits when they were younger, and would probably never find out, but he was ready to bet they were not devoid of rivalry.

"Who is Sha'ka exactly?" Lucien asked Ya'Tirrje.

"He is the leader of the Zuku Tribe and the self-proclaimed Incosi – or High King – of Elsweyr now the Mane is gone." the Gold Cat explained while rinsing his fingers delicately in a bowl. "Sha'ka was the most trusted and most talented of Mane Thenj'Iwe's generals and councillors for many years. Apparently, he got tired of being number two so…"

"Yeah, thanks to that rotten bastard of Rak…" Fog's tirade against Sha'ka was cut short by J'Ghasta.

"And _no one_ opposed him?" he asked, sporting the gloomiest facial expression Lucien had seen on him in quite a while – a strange mix of loathing, anger and…was that _envy_? "They all let him take down the Mane, whom they'd all sworn to protect…?"

"You know better than most what can happen to those who defy Sha'ka. Unless your memory grows rusty." Ya'Tirrje said in a soft voice.

J'Ghasta opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out of his throat and his shoulder slumped in a vanquished position.

This posture was so unlike J'Ghasta it shocked Lucien, until the latter remembered the last time he saw this same stance. It was not so long ago, When J'Ghasta related the events during the ceremony of the _Manecision_.

"_I had to fight and defeat the Champion of the Mane. If I lost, I was dishonoured, exiled for the rest of my life. If I won, I could stay in the country and be considered a 'full" Khajiit."_Sha'ka must, Lucien thought, be the Champion of the Mane who defeated and humiliated J'Ghasta.

Lucien winced. Things were getting _very _personal around here. Never a good thing…

"But nevertheless, some did try to oppose him, indeed." Ya'Tirrje continued. "Ubasi Dro'ba in particular tried to federate Sha'ka's enemies into a coalition. He organised a secret meeting in a small village near Valley Guard, where he and his allies got betrayed and ambushed by Sha'ka's troops."

"So, Dro'ba and his men were defeated in Valley Guard?" J'Ghasta asked.

Ya'Tirrje's face painted with a sour expression. "_Massacred_ would be more accurate." he hissed as his servant deposited his litter near the pool of the Unnameables. "Dro'ba, but also the old and wise Qarano, which was a great loss as he was the only of Those-Who-Watch who openly opposed Sha'ka…All were killed for having dared to defy Sha'ka's rule."

There was a pause during which nothing could be heard, except the lapping of the water on the sides of the pool, and the soft snoring of Polly, deeply asleep on Lucien's shoulder.

"Why do you tell us all this, Ya'Tirrje?" J'Ghasta finally asked. "This is not our business after all."

The Gold Cat's chops curled up in a smile. "Oh, it is, actually, as Sha'ka's accession to power is at the root of the deal I am about to propose to you… Something both of us are going to enjoy, I think…"

Ya'Tirrje was obviously taking great pleasure in taking his time and keeping his audience in suspense. Lucien hated himself when he realised he was actually holding his breath, and promptly released it.

"I want you to kill Sha'ka for me, J'Ghasta." The Gold Cat said out of the blue, and for the second time today, J'Ghasta's jaw dropped.

"But… But…!" He babbled.

"And why would he do such a thing for you?" Lucien asked warily, though less surprised than J'Ghasta. His worst fear confirmed when the smile on the Gold Cat's turned a bit nastier.

"Well, you see _bwala_, even if the disappearance of the Mane frees J'Ghasta of the dishonour of being branded _igwala_, the fact remains you two have broken Senchal's laws…"

The air got a little chillier as the audience read between the lines. "Ah. I now understand the demonstration with the Unnameables." Lucien said in a low voice.

"I am a merchant, _bwala_. It's economics. Doing things for free is against my principles." the Gold Cat replied in a sweet voice. "So, the deal is very simple, J'Ghasta. You help me get rid of Sha'ka and of his … _tyrannical _interventions in _my _business, and I will spare your and your friend's lives."

If it had not been for the fur, J'Ghasta would have turned pale with rage. "I knew there was something _rotten_ around here!" he growled, his coat bristling along the backbone.

"I find this offer _quite_ generous. If it were not for our friendship as kittens, you would be dead already." Ya'Tirrje observed calmly. "Beside, do I _really _need to underline the fact I also offer you the opportunity to get your revenge over Sha'ka? And in a very ritual manner, as you will have the opportunity to defy him on the day of his coronation."

There was another pause. J'Ghasta was glaring in front of him, lost in his thoughts, and Lucien realised with horror that Ya'Tirrje had a point.

Indeed, even if J'Ghasta refused to submit to the Gold Cat's blackmail, the latter had cleverly played on his desire for vengeance and the possibility to prove his countrymen he deserved to be one of them, despite his lack of conventional views. Now, Lucien was convinced J'Ghasta would refuse to leave Elsweyr until he had the opportunity to face Sha'ka, whatever the risk may be.

"Tell me one thing, Ya' – why me?" J'Ghasta finally asked with suspicion. "Certainly you don't lack the money to afford men to do that for you…?" he added, glaring at the bunch of heavily built henchmen standing behind Ya'Tirrje's litter.

"Because so far I have not found anyone who would dare, even for a considerable amount of money." Ya'Tirrje replied honestly. "And the reasons for such a lack of enthusiasm are simple. As you already know, Sha'ka is an awesome fighter, but, above all, he is supported by that despicable bastard Raksada." Ya'Tirrje pronounced the name with an obvious distaste.

"Raksada?" J'Ghasta asked.

"Despite his Khajiit sounding name, he is a Dunmer. He made his appearance a short time after you left Elsweyr. Soon after made himself essential to Sha'ka." Ya'Tirrje paused and his eyes narrowed. "Raksada is the person who does the dirty work. But some murmur it is actually the reverse – that it is Sha'ka who does the dirty work, and Raksada holding his strings."

"And people fear that Dunmer?" Lucien asked.

The Gold Cat had a sad smile. "They have good reasons too, _bwala_. Raksada is an extremely powerful mage. He is the one behind the butchery of Valley Guard." he added gloomily.

"Mages die like everybody else…" J'Ghasta replied with a smirk.

"Yes, but some say Raksada is more than a simple mage. Some says he is a…_bokor_." Ya'Tirrje said in a low voice, and Lucien surprised a gleam of fear in the Gold Cat's eyes, and more surprisingly, in J'Ghasta's. But concerning the latter, it got quickly replaced by a mocking one.

"Lion men…" J'Ghasta sniggered. "Don't tell me you believe in that Foodoo crap…!"

Ya'Tirrje looked indignant. "_Crap_?! Raksada called the Lion Men, J'Ghasta! It is the Taboo of the Taboos!"

_The Lion Men_…? Lucien frowned inwardly. Weren't the Khajiits supposed to be Lion Men? Very likely not, given the way Ya'Tirrje was talking of them… And what on Nirn was _Foodoo_?

"Oh really?" J'Ghasta replied, sarcastic. "And have you seen them, with your own eyes? Because, as far as I am concerned, your Raksada could have called the _bogeyman_ as well…"

"Dro'ba, his allies and their army did not tear themselves to pieces!" Ya'Tirrje roared, slamming his fist on one of his cushions, for the first time openly angry. Realising he was losing control of himself, the Gold Cat gave a cough and tried to regain his calm. "The Lion Men are a reality, J'Ghasta, and not another legend used by Khajiit mothers to force their progeny to finish their meals. The decomposed bodies you and your friend found in the jungle, washed along by the river, were just a little taste of what really happened in Valley Guard." His eyes narrowed. "And last night magical phenomenon was very real true…"

J'Ghasta's eyes narrowed as well, but he remained silent, even if Lucien could he was curbing an obvious urge to snap back something at Ya'Tirrje.

The Gold cat gave a big sigh as he sunk back into his sea of silky cushions. "But this is not relevant now. We have more urgent matters to discuss, such as the little details of our deal."

At the words, some guards started to draw near to Lucien. The latter felt his muscles stiffen up and he tried to exchange a quick glance with J'Ghasta, but the latter was still glowering at Ya'Tirrje.

"I never said I accepted the deal!" he exclaimed.

"I never said you had a _choice_." Ya'Tirrje replied cheerfully. "You will go to Torval to defy Sha'ka, J'Ghasta, or else, you and your friend will fatten up my Unnameables."

J'Ghasta clenched his fists and growled duly, but there was nothing he could do.

"Obviously," Ya'Tirrje continued in a sweet voice, "to make sure you won't be tempted to give me the slip, some of my men will accompany you, and your friend will stay here as my...guest."

"Your _hostage_." J'Ghasta grunted.

"Don't argue semantics with me, J'Ghasta. You were never very good at it." The Gold Cat turned toward Lucien and beamed. As for the Imperial, he looked like he had swallowed something acidic.

The Gold Cat made a little clicking of tongue and two guards took a step forward Lucien, ready to grab him by the arms.

But the assassin was quicker.

Punching one of the Khajiits in the stomach, he threw his elbow in the muzzle of the second, and stole the short, broad sword he wore around the waist. He then jumped behind J'Ghasta, and wrapping an arm around his throat, pointed the tip of the blade against his friend's jugular.

"But what the fuck are you doing?!" J'Ghasta gagged, rolling his eyes and trying to free himself from Lucien's grip and to put as much distance as possible between his throat and the blade. "And get that stupid bird off of my head!" he added when Polly, awaken by the fight, landed on his head, chirping in anger.

"I am trying to get us out of this, so shut up and stay calm." Lucien whispered between gritted teeth.

Around them the guards had formed a circle and were pointing spears at them. Polly unfolded her wings, and holding out her neck, hissed menacingly in the direction of the soldiers.

"Would you mind explaining us what you are doing, _bwala_?" Ya'Tirrje asked. His voice was friendly but his eyes told another story.

"It's very simple, Gold Cat." Lucien said with a smirk. "I'm reminding you, you are not in a position to bargain."

"You should go and rest in the shade, _bwala_." the Gold Cat purred as his henchmen and the tips of their spears were drawing closer. "Apparently, you've gotten too much sun. I am the only one _in_ a position to bargain."

"My head works perfectly well, thank you. Tell your minions to stay where they are, or else, I will kill J'Ghasta here and now." Lucien's face gave no indication of a bluff, his eyes fixed on the Gold Cat.

"What?!" J'Ghasta yelled, which earned him to be strangled a bit more by Lucien's grip.

"Shut up." Lucien grunted, still staring down the crime lord.

"Crackeeeeer!" Polly echoed.

"You too."

"Kill J'Ghasta, and you will follow him quickly." Ya'Tirrje observed, looking for signs the foreigner was bluffing, but finding none. There was something like a wall of dark ice behind the Imperial's eyes, something that both intrigued the Khajiit, and worried him. Rumours and various sources indicated the Imperial was something like J'Ghasta's jester, but perhaps this was not so. Interesting. "I don't really see what you would win by doing that, nor in what it would show me you hold the advantage…" The Gold Cat hadn't gotten the position by letting lesser men bluff him, so he continued cautiously. But with no outward appearance of that caution.

"Oh really?" Lucien asked silkily, with a slight chuckle. "Let me make _you_a deal. You need J'Ghasta simply because, as you said, one is willing to do the dirty work for you, even for a good amount of money."

"So? Everyone has a price, _bwala_. Perhaps I was simply thinking economically."

"And perhaps if I _kill_ him, it will take you _months_ to get another sod to do the dirty job for you." Lucien paused, pulling a mocking sad face. "Meanwhile, Sha'ka will continue to siphon off your revenues – until he gets bored with you and simply replaces you with one of his loyal minions. How's that for economics?" Lucien asked.

"I should kill you on the spot for your impertinence!" The Khajiit made a great effort to remain calm, but his fat body trembling with indignation translated his emotions in every wiggle and jiggle.

Lucien smiled like a wolf among sheep. He had played well by guessing Ya'Tirrje actually feared more for his life than his money.

"Go ahead." Lucien taunted softly. "Kill us. And then have fun keep providing Sha'ka with good reasons to keep you alive."

This time, Ya'Tirrje lost all his composure and his face contorted with rage. One of his nostrils started to twitch nervously. "What do you want?" He spat.

Lucien smirked inwardly. He knew he had the advantage and now, all he needed was to turn it into total victory. "Here is my deal, Gold Cat. You will put your huge network of informants at our service. You will also invest your colossal wealth towards finding the woman we are looking for. In exchange, J'Ghasta will meet Sha'ka…"

"… and defeat him or else…" Ya'Tirrje growled.

"…will meet Sha'ka and _defy_ him." Lucien said, choosing his words carefully as he interrupted Ya'Tirrje. "The outcome of the fight will _not _be taken into consideration in our deal."

J'Ghasta opened his mouth to say something, but Lucien drove the blade a little further in his fur. The Khajiit winced in pain and closed his jaws. It was safer to let the other man work.

"How dare you…? What use are you to me if you don't vanquish him?!" Ya'Tirrje yelled.

"Oh, don't worry too much about that." Lucien replied in an appeasing voice – ruined by the note of smugness. "I am convinced J'Ghasta will put all his heart in the fight, given his pride would not suffer being beaten again."

J'Ghasta rolled his eyes but wisely kept quiet – the blade was really starting to dig in. Any further and Lucien would be leaving him a very permanent 'thanks for the memories of this disaster-trip'. As for Ya'Tirrje, he shot a killing look at the Imperial. But he also realised Lucien was not ready to give any ground easily, so he tried to bargain on another point.

"All right." the Gold Cat conceded. "The outcome of the fight will not determine whether or not I grant you my help. But you _will_ go to Senchal escorted by a squad of my men, as well as Mudli and Fog. They are my most trusted men, and a bit of fresh air will do them some good – especially Fog…" he added, shooting a sideways glance at his associate standing by his litter and who, during the whole altercation, had tried his best to make himself forgotten.

"Er, with all due respect, Ya', I would appreciate to be kept out of all this…" Fog ventured timidly, raising a protesting finger. But the look Ya'Tirrje shot him silenced him.

"Fog can come – but not Mudli." Lucien replied curtly.

"Don't push my patience and your luck, _bwala_…" Ya'Tirrje hissed, his multiple double chins shivering with rage and indignation.

"All right. Fog and Mudli come with us." Lucien granted, but his tone indicated one wrong move and either he or Mudli would not be coming _back_. "It is a deal then?"

Ya'Tirrje hesitated a bit, making Lucien chuckle. Indeed, as soon as the Gold Cat gave his word in front of witnesses, even he could not go back on it.

"Come on." Lucien purred. "They say a great merchant has one word only. Prove it!"

For a second, Ya'Tirrje looked as if he was about to have fit. The people around the litter held their collective breath.

"Fine. _Fine_." Ya'Tirrje hissed. "It is a deal." And he angrily spat on the ground, in front of his litter.

Lucien beamed. "Excellent!" He imitated the Khajiit, spat on the same right spot and then released his grip on J'Ghasta. Polly still perched on its head, the Khajiit scrambled away from him, massing the little wound on his neck and shooting the Imperial a killing glance.

"Now, I don't wish to see you two again before the deed is done." Ya'Tirrje said in a low voice. A nasty smile then appeared on his face. "This, of course, meaning you've managed to vanquish Sha'ka, and safely come back here..."

And without waiting for an answer, the four servants lifted the litter again, and the Gold Cat and his retinue were gone.

"That was close." Lucien murmured with a smile as he watched Ya'Tirrje and his escort getting back to the villa, before turning toward J'Ghasta, beaming. "But we made it."

"Yeah, we did – as usual." his Khajiit friend replied, smiling as he extended his arm for Polly to perch on it. Then, the smile disappeared from his face. Before Lucien could react, the Khajiit grabbed him with his free hand by the front of his shirt.

"What the…?!" Lucien yelled just before he found himself hurled in the air, graciously falling toward the pool of the Unnameables.

There was a big splash when Lucien landed in the muddy waters, from which he emerged laboriously, spitting, swearing and squelching on the slippery banks. Polly took off from J'Ghasta's arm, flying in circles around Lucien's head.

"Wet crackeeeer! Wet crackeeeer!" she cried, distressed.

"Is it me, or has your parrot expanded her vocabulary since she joined us…?" J'Ghasta asked, laughing loudly at the pathetic sight of a soaked Lucien.

"Why have you done that?!" the Imperial shrieked, water trickling down his soaked clothes and hair.

"Don't you dare to use me as a hostage _ever_ _again_." J'Ghasta said in a pleasant voice.

"I did that to save our necks, whereas you could have killed me!" Lucien shrieked. "The Unnameables are certainly still around!"

"I bet they are." J'Ghasta replied with a little smirk as he offered a hand to help Lucien to get up.

"You are a bastard and I hate you." Lucien muttered as he grabbed the Khajiit's hand and got back to his feet.

J'Ghasta beamed at him and passed an arm around his shoulder. "Yes, and you know what? You truly are a bastard too. What goes around…" The Khajiit's smile grew even wider and he passed an arm around the shoulders of his soaked and extremely annoyed friend. "And now, let's go and drink to the most awesome manipulative bastard I know."

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Back, in his villa, Ya'Tirrje furiously chewed pickled caterpillars while two of his female servant massaged his shoulders vigorously to help him to relax.

The Gold Cat could not believe it. How he, the greatest and the cleverest merchant of Elsweyr, got tricked by an _Isihambi_. By a stranger. By… an _ape_!

He could not let such an affront unpunished.

"Mudli!" he called out.

At the mention of the name, shadows in a corner of a room which looked like mere and innocent shadows turned into the mostly feared Mudli, Master Assassin of the Syndicate.

"Yes, O Gold Cat?" the Khajiit assassin bowed near the litter.

"Whatever the outcome of the fight with Sha'ka may be, make sure they never come back to Senchal alive." Ya'Tirrje hissed as he angrily bit off the head of a caterpillar.

Mudli's face painted with a satisfied smile. He was going to enjoy that mission _greatly_.

**(1)** Bombassa's stew was the only one in Nirn with which one could close gaps or, in the worst case, which tended to try to get out of the marmite to live its own life and discover the world.

**(2)** There a few others of suck (bad) jokes, like the ones about vampires having a "bat temper" and Argonians managing to lay many eggs because of sitting eggsamisations. Note : no need to say telling such kind of jokes to the populations concerned is not the best way to make friends and stay in one piece (that last remark is particularly true for vampires).


	14. Theology

**Chapter 13 – Theology**

**Many, many thanks to Raven Studio, who is both a fantastic beta and writer. 8D**

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"_(…) And Azurah, the Queen of the Night Sky, saw that her beloved Children, the Khajiits, were running wild, and that the crafty Sheggorath had led them out of control, thanks to the power of his Moon Sugar, and so they became a laughingstock to their enemies_.

_So Azurah stood at the edge of the newly created Forest of Tenmar and said, 'You, whom I have shaped into the most beautiful, clever and fastest creatures in the world. You have succumbed to the call of Folly and Disorder. You have succumbed to Sheggorath and his Skooma. Are you not ashamed? _

_And Azurah's Children replied, 'No, but we are very thirsty.' (…)" _

David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr", transcription of the _Ingan'kwane_.

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_Tchunk…. Tchunk….Tchunk…_

A regular sound, like something heavy hitting on wood, drew Belisarius Arius slowly back to consciousness.

His eyelids flicked several times as he tried laboriously to clear his vision. The noise continued to echo in his head, adding to an already terrible headache.

The Imperial squinted in pain. From head to feet, there was not a single part of his body which did not ache badly. His right shoulder sang a hymn to pain and his left eye was so swollen it stubbornly refused to open.

_Tchunk…. Tchunk….Tchunk…_

Arius grunted, but the sound which reached his ears seemed strangely muffled. He tried to remember what exactly happened, as his numb senses slowly made contact with reality again.

So, he was still alive. A rather unexpected development – but not really a very reassuring one considering the nature of his captors. If Anchovy Face and his gang had kept him alive, it was certainly because they had something in mind, and Arius doubted he was going to enjoy it much…

Trying to ignore the growing pain in his body, he lifted his head up, trying to move, but his shoulders rubbed against a wooden surface. So did his naked feet. Arius stopped struggling and sighed, letting his head fall back heavily.

There was not much he could do. His hands were tightly tied behind his back, and he was gagged. And given the taste of the rag in his mouth, Arius preferred not to think where it had been before ending up across his mouth – this was not a moment for his germophobe tendencies to take over.

His captors also took the precaution of taking away his personal belongings – boots, clothes, and, obviously, the entire arsenal he had carefully hidden in them.

"_Bound, gagged and half naked in some kind of box."_ the assassin thought gloomily. "_Great_."

This was certainly one of the most unpleasant situations to wake up to in his whole life.

And it was about to get worse.

"The lid's nailed down." an unknown, muffled voice announced from outside the box. "I still don't get it, though. Wouldn't it be simpler to kill him and bury him discretely at Farragut?"

"For the tenth – and I hope – _last_ time, _this_ way is much more economical in terms of time and problems." another muffled voice explained patiently. This one Arius recognised as Anchovy Face's. The Silencer's mood darkened further. At least, he had hoped the infamous little sod would show some problem of elocution after the nasty facial wound Arius inflicted on him. Apparently, even this little satisfaction was refused to him…

"If we had killed him over there, getting rid of the body without leaving any trace of our visit would have been too complicated – we already messed the place up enough." Anchovy Face continued. "But _this way_, we definitely get rid of him, while at same time disposing of the body and having a bit of fun." There was a pause followed by an evil chuckle. "We kill two birds with one stone, if you prefer…"

The pun on words took its time to sink in Anchovy Face's lackey's brain, but once it had, it provoked a wave of nasty glee. "Ahaha! Good one…!"

Inside the box, Arius's heart sank. It was not so much Anchovy Face's terrible sense of humour which appalled him, than the revelation hidden in his awful joke. If they had kept him alive so far, it was simply to kill him in a more gruesome fashion…

But well – what else to expect after all? Of course, death was a perfectly normal part of an assassin's life. Still, this did not mean Arius was impatiently looking forward meeting the Dread Father.

"Yeah, yeah, right. It's actually not _that _funny." Anchovy Face grumbled as his companion continued to guffaw. "You and the others should get yourselves motivated. Mister Marcel, will be back soon to do his job, and I really don't feel like explaining to him why we're digging up his cemetery..."

The second assassin replied, but Arius did not pay attention. Anchovy Face's words were sinking in his foggy brain, slowly turning into a terrible realisation.

He wasn't bound, gagged and half naked in some kind of box.

He was bound, gagged and half naked _in a coffin_.

Arius' eyes opened wide in horror as he instinctively banged his knee against the lid. The lid did not move an inch though Arius received a faceful of some kind of light dust – remains of the former occupant of the coffin. This time, the germophobe in Arius screamed in horror and disgust.

"Ah! Sounds like our dear pen-pusher is awake!" Anchovy Face patted the lid of the coffin almost affectionately. "Are you all right in there, _Ariz_? Not too hot, I hope…?"

Arius gave another angry, panicked and helpless kick to the lid with his knee, receiving more dust. His stomach flopped, bile burning his throat, making him cough badly.

"I take that as a 'no'." Anchovy Face said happily. "Well, make the most of it, because it's going to get _stuffy_ in there."

In the coffin, Arius continued coughing, trying to get his breath back. For the sake of the Night Mother and Sithis together, these bunch of bastards was about to bury him alive!

"This is what happens to those who oppose Listener Arquen." Anchovy Face commented in a pleasant voice as if he had read Arius' thoughts. "Pen-pusher should have stayed behind his nice little desk, enjoying himself, adding up his nice little figures instead of mixing in the business of the _real_ assassins, hey?" he added in a mocking voice, before growing serious again. "But you know what? You managed to _surprise _me. And because of that, I'm ready to show you a bit of mercy."

At the words, Arius took several deep breaths, though not too deep, because of the dust. Was this a last hope or a delusion? He knew he should not get his hopes up, but the perspective of ending buried alive – in addition, in a disgusting and totally unhygienic coffin – was far from pleasing him.

"Here's the deal. I'll ensure your quick and painless death, if you answer a simple question…" Anchovy Face stopped.

Arius heard something scratching the wood near his head.

His captor had apparently knelt on the ground, to whisper into the tiny chink left by the lid. "Where is Shadowmere? If you agree to reply, kick the lid once –twice for 'no.' And I don't need to say you'll regret not staying in your box if you try to trick me, am I clear?"

A sigh of despair lifted Arius' chest and he closed his eyes._ Delusion_. Admitting he would have been ready to betray Lachance's trust – an option he refused to consider – he had not more clue now than at Farragut where the mare was.

_And why that obsession about that horse, anyway? _

"So, what is your answer?" Anchovy Face pressed on.

Resignedly, Arius kicked the lid twice – signing his death warrant and getting another drizzle of the revolting dust.

"Oh, is that so?" Anchovy Face sniffed disgustedly. "Fine! You and your misplace loyalty can go to root in the tomb of – what is the name on the tombstone again? Ah, yes – _Paula Shultz_." The short assassin then lost all interest in his prisoner, turning his attention to his helpers. "All right, I'm off to make my report to Listener Arquen. Hurry up and finish the job, the sun's rising already."

And he left.

The following minutes lasted hours for Arius. He heard the rest of the assassins bustling about around the coffin, finishing the last preparations for his – Arius gulped – _burial_.

They finally grabbed the coffin, dropping it into the empty grave where it landed with an abrupt 'thump', the comfort of the occupant being their last priority.

Soon after, the sound of the first shovelful of soil crashing on the lid of the coffin made Arius jump. It was quickly followed by second one, and another one, and another one…

Soon, the noises became more and more muffled, and after a short while, there were no more sounds. Just complete silence.

Arius wondered how deep they'd buried him – three feet down? Four? The Silencer gulped, trying to calm the rising hysteria at his claustrophobia imprisonment. His muscles all tensed, he was sweating abundantly and his brain was now functioning full speed, trying to find a way to…

_Sweating…_

Yes, that was it! The sweat was making his skin very slippery. So maybe he could get rid of these ropes and then…

The assassin moaned in despair.

And then what? Punch the lid? Or blow it up with a fireball and ending up crushed by who knew how much soil?

He was cornered and was going to die of asphyxiation. So he would had better stop coming up with dumb scenarios of escape and brace himself to face that particularly unpleasant death. He had suffocated enough people in his life to know it was _not a nice way to die_…

The atmosphere in the coffin was starting to get extremely stuffy, and the feeling of oppression got worse when panicked breathing increased. Or maybe it was not? Maybe fear was making him imagine he was running out of oxygen already, whereas the supply was still abundant?

What's more, he was starting to hear noises again. Hallucinations caused by the lack of oxygen...or again by his overwhelmed-with-terror mind?

Arius giggled hysterically. He was probably going to die of panic before of suffocation.

"… in _there_?"

"…dig…!...shovel?"

The Silencer stopped giggling and frowned. No. This time, he was sure the voices he heard were real as well as the sound of turned-over soil.

Arius gulped when something scraped the lid of his coffin.

"I found it!" a well-known voice exclaimed.

The lid suddenly vanished. Arius groaned as soil landed on his face and his eyes. Blinking several times before sighing in relief, he identified the massive, one-armed silhouette in full Dwemer plate towering over him.

_Gogron gro-Bolmog._

"Yo pal!" the Orc boomed, throwing the lid of the coffin out of the grave as if it was as light as paper. "How are things?"

Not waiting for an answer which was not forthcoming anyway, Gogron grabbed Arius by the ropes binding him and threw him over his shoulder before scrabbling out of the grave with difficulty.

"Ocheeeeva! He's aliiive!" the Orc boomed, putting Arius on the ground and starting to untie him.

In less than a heart-beat, a shadow materialised by Gogron, hooded and nonchalantly dragging a dead assassin by the collar.

"See?" Gogron told the shadow. "A bit messed up, but apart from that, he's all in one piece!"

The shadow threw back its hood, revealing the worried face of Ocheeva. Despite the gag, Arius tried to shoot a small smile at the Mistress of the Sanctuary. The latter did not return it, the expression on her face changing from concern to total shock.

"A _bit_ messed up?" She exclaimed, horrified. "Gogron, he is _seriously wounded_!" she pushed the Orc away with a strength no one would have suspected her to have, and knelt by Arius.

"I'm fine, Ocheeva." the Silencer mumbled as he took the gag of his mouth and slowly got up on his feet.

"No, you are not! M'raaj-Daaaaaaar!" She yelled, causing Gogron and Arius to wince. "Come over here at once ple..._Belisarius_?!" Ocheeva jumped forward, beating Gogron to catch the fainting Arius. The latter collapsed in the Argonian's arms. Arius quickly found himself lying on the ground, his head resting in the crook of Ocheeva's elbow. The Argonian was holding him tightly, and, as a result, Arius' cheek was crushed against a warm, comfortable and very interesting fullness.

"M'raaj-Daaaaaaar!" Ocheeva screamed again. "What in Oblivion is he doing?!"

"He's with Teinaava, chasing one of the assassins who attacked us." announced Antoinetta Marie, popping up out of the dark, a bloodstained dagger in her hand. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a horrified move when she saw Arius. "Oooh, poor Belisarius! Is he all right?"

"I am." Arius grumbled, his eyes still closed and trying his best to continue to ignore the fact that his cheek was actually rubbing against _Ocheeva's breast_. "Where are we? How did you find me…?"

Ocheeva smiled. "We are in the little cemetery near Cheydinhal. And we did not find you. _She_ did."

Arius opened his eyes, twisting his neck to see the equine silhouette of Shadowmere standing behind Antoinetta, her glowing red eyes staring somewhat mockingly at him.

The assassin sighed in relief. "They were…after her, you know." He articulated with difficulty. He was finding it increasingly complicated to organise his thoughts coherently. A hot liquid running down his chest and back indicated him his shoulder wound was starting to bleed again and the presence of Ocheeva's _breast_ in his direct environment was distracting him more than he believed it could. "What about… the Synod?"

The faces of the three assassins darkened at the words.

"Let's just say it was very… _informative_." Ocheeva replied with a cough.

"And _worrying_." Gogron growled.

"And _weird_." Antoinetta added, shivering.

"Ah." Arius replied. It was all he was able to come up with at the moment. His brain was muddled up with questions both about what happened at the Synod and the strange fact female Argonians had _breast_ despite they laid eggs and did not _breast_-feed.

He realised it was actually the first time in his all life he found himself so close to a woman's _breast_ and decided that, for his own sake, it was definitely time to pass out.

7777777777777777

"_Master Valtieri? Can you see them?" __asked a little reedy voice. "Are they coming soon? Big Tommy and the others said they were coming soon. But I can't see anything…" _

The voice of the young Lucien Lachance was the first thing to flash in Sigrid's mind as her thoughts united with the datadice. It was quickly followed by a cacophony of other voices. Then, slowly, her sense of smell was assaulted by a mix of perfume, human sweat, wet nature and horse manure.

When Sigrid finally opened her eyes – or rather, when she started to perceive her surroundings via the eyes of her host, she found herself standing once again on the ramparts of Howldeath, but the darkness of the night had given way to daylight, and the heavy silence exchanged for happy hubbub. She was surrounded by a cheerful and heteroclite crowd composed of jovial peasants and shopkeepers of all ages, babbling excitedly. The sky overhead showed deep grey with drizzle falling, but it did not seem enough to undermine the general enthusiasm.

"_It is pretty lively here!" _Clairvoix cheered in Sigrid's mind. _"And it looks like we occupy Valtieri's mind again…"_

Sigrid gave a mental nod, and continuing to focus on the emotions and feelings of Vicente, to tightening her grip on the memory.

--

"Master Valtieri?" Lucien's voice asked again somewhere around the vampire's waist.

The latter finally lowered his eyes to find himself looking into the anxious face of the young boy, who had stopped jumping up and down to look over the parapet and was now looking at him with a hopeful expression.

"I can't see them either, Lucien." The vampire replied patiently. "But the messenger said they would be back around noon, so they should arrive soon."

"Ah." the boy replied, half-convinced. He turned back toward the parapet and started to jump again. "But I still...can't...see..._anything_…" the boy moaned, his speech punctuated by fresh attempts to see over the parapet.

"Stop jumping up and down like that, squirt." J'Ghasta growled. "You made me feel sea-sick…"

Of all the people present on the ramparts, the teenage Khajiit was certainly not the happiest. He had his "bad-day" face while water was trickling down his fur, causing his mane to fall into his eyes. One a regular basis, he shook himself to regain his vision, but all he managed to do in the end was to achieve the look of a giant, and very fluffy dandelion.

To Lucien and the bystanders' greatest delight.

"J'Ghasta is right, Lucien." said the deep but affectionate voice of Father Tiberius, who stood sedately on Vicente's left. "Rather than getting overexcited here, you two should get down to the main gate. Then you can be among the first to welcome them."

The idea visibly filled Lucien with enthusiasm, his face brightening with a large smile. "That's a great idea, Father!" he exclaimed, grabbing J'Ghasta's hand. "Let's go!"

J'Ghasta was not as overjoyed at the prospect. "Let me die here…" he mumbled.

"_Please_!" Lucien insisted, shaking his arm. "Let's go! Let's go! Let's go! Let's g…!"

"All right, _all right_ – anything as long as you _shut up_!"

The Khajiit followed Lucien, though not before shooting Father Tiberius and Vicente a dark glance, dragging his feet as the boy bounded down the stairs to the courtyard.

"I am sorry." the priest apologised to Vicente as he watched the teenager and the child walking away. "Lucien can be extremely irritating when he wants to…"

The vampire shrugged under his soaked and heavy cloak. "There is nothing to be sorry about, Father. We all were young, after all…"

"Indeed – even that if for some, it was long time ago." the priest replied, maintaining the benevolent expression which seemed to never leave his face.

Since Vicente had met Father Tiberius a few days ago, the man had never displayed another expression, and the assassin had come to think the religious man belonged to that category of people who would smile benignly to a torturer ready to gut him, to hurt those he loved or who would force him to wait for hours in a queue as his tormentor took all his time looking in his purse for the right amount of change to give the cashier…

Usually, the vampire loathed such kind of sickeningly benevolent behaviours. He judged them totally irrational and misguided. As far as he was concerned, the world was divided in two categories: the strong and the victims, and with his ridiculous tendency toward universal compassion, father Tiberius clearly belonged to the second category.

Nevertheless, the vampire had developed a certain interest in the priest of Akatosh, who had in his charge the souls of the parish of Howldeath. Father Tiberius was, after all, one of the few persons around the town able to hold an interesting conversation and to read without following the lines with his forefinger.

A bugle call coming from the edge of the forest dragged Vicente away from his thoughts. Father Tiberius raised an eyebrow while the crowd on the ramparts rushed down the stairs toward the great door in a jubilant mass letting out cries of excitement.

"Ah, they're a bit early on the planned schedule. But given the terrible weather, no one will complain, I suppose." the priest observed.

"Especially not Lucien…" Vicente said with a chuckle.

During the last two days, the idle vampire had plenty of time to make Lucien's acquaintance. The young boy took to following J'Ghasta everywhere like an extremely chatty, excitable shadow. Vicente had been a bit wary of encouraging this behaviour at first, before realising it could be both a good source of information on Howldeath, as well as a nice way to knock a bit of sense in the young Khajiit's head. Indeed, Lucien had labelled J'Ghasta "total-source-of-awesomeness", forcing the latter to act as a model – a task the teenager was carrying out fairly well, under the scrutinising gaze of his vampire master.

Vicente suddenly blinked when he realised Tiberius had asked him something he had not heard. The priest was offering him his arm with a smile.

"Let me help you to get down, my son." the priest repeated, patiently.

"I have a cane to support me, Father." the vampire responded, tapping the ground with the aforementioned accessory.

Father Tiberius' smile widened. "Arrogance is a cardinal sin, Master Valtieri."

Ready to do anything to avoid a sermon on the ill effects of an excess of pride, Vicente accepted the priest's support. His stratagem to play an infirm victim of the Purple Plague had failed spectacularly to act as a repellent against Father Tiberius – worse, it actually worked like a magnet on the man's great sense of compassion.

Making the best of a bad job, the vampire played his part so perfectly it took the two men several minutes to get down the stairs, and Vicente was about to set a foot on the ground when the thud which had echoed in the distance for a while, became suddenly deafening.

"They're coming!" shrieked Lucien's voice somewhere within the crowd packed around the gates.

The boy's cry was quickly echoed by the people around him as a troop of armed riders galloped through the gate at top speed, before stopping in the middle of the court in a concert of neighs.

"People of Howldeath, I salute you!" boomed Lord Saevus, taking his weathered helmet off in a theatrical movement, freeing his unkempt dark hair and beard. "We have returned, and the hunt was good!"

The townsfolk responded to their lord's speech in a chorus of cheers, gathering around the riders to admire the mounts and equipage of the Imperial and the Dunmer delegations their lord had taken for a two-day hunting trip in the woods around Howldeath.

Vicente did not care at all about this, rather his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for Rivanone, who had joined the hunt as well.

There she was, riding her favourite horse, Shadowmare, which, as her name failed to indicate, was a superb chestnut mare, and the most vicious creature Vicente had ever met in his extremely long existence.

To think Rivanone planned to _breed_ that monster...

The vampire shivered at the very thought, promising himself to drown any offspring produced by Shadowmare and by any stallion brave enough to mate with her – or in such sexual misery it had no choices left.

Putting aside his consideration of horse breeding, the vampire fixed his attention on his Speaker.

Like her companions, the Rivanone looked exhausted, nevertheless it did not prevent her from having a good laugh with the rider on her left, who seemed to have difficulty in managing his horse. Vicente scowled, the rider appeared to be Araklos Drothan, the young Dunmer who had made the veiled innuendos about Vicente's relations with Rivanone...

_...And she was laughing with him._

At the sight, all the pleasure Vicente had experienced vanished in a second, replaced by something much darker and bitterer...

After the reception, the vampire had informed Rivanone of Drothan's behaviour and of his doubts concerning Methas Hlaalu being an agent of the Morag Tong. But to the vampire's greatest astonishment, his Speaker had not shown any sign of concern, and instead of establishing a plan to determine whether those two should be "dealt" with quickly or not, she had only uttered a laconic _"It's to be expected, given what's going on here",_ then refused to comment when pressed by the vampire to explain herself.

Vicente found himself fuming on and off ever since. Too many things puzzled him. Too many things did not make sense at all.

Their mission, to start with. True, the political business going on in Howldeath was indeed of importance, and it was necessary to keep fingers on the pulse of the negotiations. But usually, the Dark Brotherhood only delegated lower-rank members for such this kind of mission, and there was _apparently_ nothing which necessitated the presence of a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, her Silencer and a talented apprentice assassin – even if involvement with or by the Morag Tong was implied.

_Apparently…_

Vicente smirked. _Appearances _– the root of the entire problem. During his nocturnal exploration of the surroundings, Vicente had seen too many strange events which belied the apparent normality of the region.

_Apparently,_ the people of Howldeath were merry, happy folks, not at all terrorised by a violent, bitter baron…

_Apparently,_ the nights of Howldeath were quiet ones, not at all pierced by screams of despair coming from the castle, which everyone pretended not to hear.

_Apparently_, the ruins of Sundercliff Watch were just old ruins, never visited after dark by discreet, hooded figures.

A_pparently_, Rivanone was playing fair with him, not hiding anything about the true nature of their mission…

And _apparently_, Howldeath was just a normal town, without even the faintest trace at all of vampire.

Of all these elements, the last bit was the one which confused and worried Vicente the most.

If some of his kind hunted in the vicinity, they certainly knew another vampire – he himself had entered their territory. His "brethren", thus, should have tried to make contact with him – and as vampires were very territorial beings, such contact should have been violent and almost immediate.

But against all odds, no such thing had happened. Yet.

Vicente had not been able to link the presence of the vampires and of their uncharacteristic behaviour to the other strange elements he had noticed. But all these little uncanny things were piling up, making him think something was definitely rotten in the village of Howldeath.

The vampire assassin only hoped he could stop the decay in time and prevent it from contaminating his companions and himself.

His thoughts were interrupted once more by the cries of the crowd. Two packhorses pulling a rough sleigh piled high with a jumble of animal carcasses entered the gates, distracting the villagers from their lord's hunting party.

Vicente winced at the sight of the animals' bodies. Lord Saevus and his guests had not denied themselves. The states of the skins clearly showed the "hunt" had been more about unwinding than killing the animals neatly, some of them having been turned in nothing more than blood-oozing pulp.

The vampire's chest inflated with disgust. He was himself a hunter and a killer – even if the kind of game he hunted was of a somewhat different nature – but he had never stooped himself to such baseness. If the world was indeed divided between the strong and the victims, it was the strong's duty to show magnanimity and not letting themselves succumb to such lower instincts.

As the thought crossed his mind, Vicente could not help but shoot a look back at Drothan. Rivanone had left him, the young Dark Elf now chatting animatedly with some of his comrades. The vampire was ready to bet the Dunmer had been among the most enthusiastic participants in the slaughter…

"By Akatosh's beard, my lord!" exclaimed one of the peasants to Lord Saevus as the latter dismounted. "Look at the size of theses antlers! You brought us back the King of the Forest!"

The comment was welcomed by a chorus of appreciative nods and whispers.

"Ah, this one has not fallen under my arrows, I am afraid." the Baron replied with a little smile. "This is the work of Lord Hlaalu." he added, motioning towards the Dunmer lord, who dismounted his horse like a trained rider – unlike his companions Drothan and Avoni Dren, who almost collapsed on the ground as they tried to imitate him.

The sight provoked the hilarity of the crowd. The fact the Dunmer were part of an important diplomatic mission did not bother the inhabitants of Howldeath, who were always ready to have some fun at the expense of the most hated Dark Elves, the eternal enemies in this region coveted by both peoples. Even father Tiberius chuckled, and Vicente was more than eager to imitate him, too happy he was to see Drothan making a fool of himself.

"Once you will have stopped laughing, Master Valtieri, you will eventually have the time to greet me…" said a half-irritated, half-amused voice.

Vicente looked away from Drothan and found himself facing Rivanone who was holding Shadowmare by the reins.

"Lady Trencavel." the vampire said, putting in his tone as sarcasm as he could. "I do apologise. I did not want to interrupt you, as you seemed to so enjoy the company of Master Drothan..."

"Glad to see you are in such an _excellent_ mood, Master Valtieri." the bard replied, raising a dubious eyebrow, visibly puzzled by her Silencer's obvious irritation.

Vicente rolled his eyes inwardly. She made him die of jealousy, and she did not even seem to notice.

_Women…_

"Aaaah, Lady Trencavel!" Father Tiberius exclaimed, letting go Vicente's arm to warmly shake Rivanone's hand. "It is a pleasure to see you back. So, how did those two days hunting go?"

"Very well Father, as you can see." Rivanone sniggered, gesturing toward the sleigh covered in dead animals. "Lord Saevus knew exactly where to find preys, and most men at the party have been able to show their great talents as hunters."

The disapproval masked by politeness in Rivanone's voice did not pass unnoticed by the priest. "Well… Maybe such violent and bloody activity is not a place for a lady of your stature, my lady…" Tiberius ventured.

Vicente closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, chuckling quietly. If only he knew… Beside, his very independent Speaker could not close her eyes to such a remark, however well intended, and the good Father Tiberius was about to get it in the neck.

"_Don't touch that!" _

But the words which cracked sharply in the air were not Rivanone's.

A few feet from the trio was standing Lord Saevus, surrounded by his squires and towering angrily over a rather frightened-looking Lucien holding, with some difficultly, a sword as big as himself. The boy had gotten near the Baron, and had started to help Saevus' men to unequip himself and his horse.

But Lucien's attentiveness was obviously not to the Baron's liking.

"How _dare you_…?!" Saevus hissed, snatching the sword from the boy's hands.

If most of the crowd had not noticed the incident yet, too busy admiring the trophies brought by the hunters, some people had noticed, and stopped talking to glare at the duo.

Lucien gulped and took a step backward, trying to avoid Lord Saevus' furious glare as well as a potential wallop. J'Ghasta, standing not far away, had broken off his conversation with his neighbour, frowning at the scene.

"I… I am sorry, my lord." the boy babbled in confusion.

Lord Saevus stood there for a while, opening and closing his hands slowly. But he did not raise a hand against the boy. It was not needed. The charge of pure loathing and despicability in his eyes was sufficient to knock anyone down.

"I am sorry, my lord." Lucien repeated. "I didn't mean to…"

The Baron bent forward to find himself face to face with Lucien. "Don't you dare to put your hands on this sword _ever_ again." the man hissed. "Am I clear?"

"Yes, my lord." Lucien said in a tiny voice.

More people were now glaring at the scene and Lucien had turned very red in shame.

"I didn't hear you." the Baron growled.

The child's lower lip started to tremble a bit and he made a visible effort to hold back the tears, forming in his eyes. "Yes, my lord." he repeated a bit louder, his voice quavering.

Saevus' eyes narrowed. "'Yes' what?"

The Baron was certainly taking a vicious pleasure in the boy's embarrassment. The people around started to whisper. As for J'Ghasta, he was now clearly indignant.

Lucien gulped again. "I won't touch your sword ever again."

This finally seemed to satisfy Lord Saevus, who grabbed the boy by his sleeve and gave him a push which sent the boy stumbling. "Now, get out of my sight!"

The child did not need to be told twice. His face tensed in humiliation and anger, he disappeared quickly into the crowd as people around resumed their conversations – except that their main subject was no longer the hunt.

J'Ghasta shot a questioning glance at Vicente and Rivanone. The latter got its meaning perfectly well and gave the Khajiit a sharp nod to allow him to go after Lucien.

"Would I dare to ask you what is the meaning of this _appalling_?" Vicente whispered to Father Tiberius as he watched J'Ghasta elbowing his way.

"Would I dare to _tell _you?" the priest replied with a sad laugh.

Vicente and Rivanone exchanged a quick look before the latter gave a little sigh. "Well, gentleman, I have to go." The bard declared regretfully. "If the Imperial delegation permits it, I will see you later." She added before vanishing from sight.

Now on their own, the two men exchanged a glance and, without a word, left the crowd, Father Tiberius preceding Vicente.

The priest led Vicente to a little cemetery near the chapel, which, like many other cemeteries in small towns, was very pastoral with trees, flowerbeds and tombstones pointing out of the neatly trimmed grass. In Howldeath's case, and to Vicente's greatest surprise, the cemetery had the dubious placement of standing near the sheds where black pudding, Howldeath's main export, was made.

The very thought of the quantities of blood in the buildings left Vicente's head spinning. The vampire turned his attention to the graves, which he scanned the quickly, looking for an abnormal level of fresh ones. Even if vampires did not generally look toward killing their prey, a clan at work in a given left a trail… But there was no sign of an abnormal level of deaths in Howldeath.

Father Tiberius finally stopped by one of the graves, much more embellished than the other tombs of the cemetery. The tombstone was extremely simple, with just a name engraved on it.

_Eliane Lachance._

"Lucien's mother." Vicente observed, breaking the silence. His eyes fell on the bunches of flowers. "Is it the child who puts flowers on her grave?"

The priest shook his head. "No. Lucien almost never comes here. It is Lord Saevus who leaves tokens at her grave. _Personally_..."

Vicente shot the Imperial a long and meaningful glance. Father Tiberius smiled – but not the usual benevolent smile.

"I think you are starting to understand." the religious man started, watching Vicente carefully.

"If you are trying to tell me Eliane Lachance and Lord Saevus had an intimate relationship which…_resulted_ in Lucien, I think I do." Vicente replied, choosing his words with care.

"It is not a secret that the Baron had never been a happily married man." the priest said, stroking the top of the tombstone with his hand. "His union with Lady Lydia Agylica, the Baroness of Howldeath by inheritance, was motivated by political interest only and the relationship he had with her never warmed over the years." Father Tiberius made a face. "The thing which truly united the couple was their only son Corvus, whom the Baron adored. And if Lord Saevus did not cry much when his wife died, the boy's death a few weeks ago was quite a blow…"

"Corvus… Drowned in Lake Canulus…" Vicente whispered. His eyes scanned the most recent tombs, but were unable to distinguish the one belonging to the Baron's son.

"You won't find Corvus' here, Master Valtieri." Tiberius said, having caught the vampire's movement. "For the corpse was not found. The Baron has had Legion Engineers dredging the lake, but without success."

Vicente raised a sceptical eyebrow. Lake Canulus, the little expanse of water near Sundercliff Watch barely warranted the term 'lake, as it was neither very large nor deep enough to thwart the efforts of Imperial engineers – and something in Father Tiberius' expression made the vampire think the priest shared his opinion.

But it was not the issue for now.

"So, Lucien is the illegitimate son of Lord Saevus and Eliane Lachance." Vicente said thoughtfully.

"Illegitimate son, yes." Father Tiberius pursued his lips. "Even if some would not be as indulgent as you in their words to qualify Lucien's birth – his own father, to start with…"

"Why is the Baron so hostile toward his son?"

"You have to understand that Lord Saevus was deeply in love with Eliane, with a passion bordering on obsession... He wanted his relationship with his mistress to be… _exclusive_. He wanted to be the _only _recipient of Eliane's love – which he was until their son was born." Tiberius' face darkened. "The Baron even tried to convince Eliane to abort, but she was extremely stubborn and threatened to throw herself off the cliffs, so he gave up…"

Vicente frowned. "You mean Lord Saevus was jealous of Lucien?"

"_Is_." Father Tiberius corrected, hiding his hands in his sleeves and shivering under the drizzle which had intensified into a moderate rain. "And morbidly. The simple sight of Lucien is sometimes enough to make him fly into a towering rage – but he doesn't beat the boy, if it is what you are thinking." Tiberius added when he saw Vicente's disapproving gaze. "Even if sometimes I wish he did. Words can be more devastating than slaps…"

Vicente looked at Eliane's grave. Amazing how much love and hatred women could generate in men…

"It is sad, really." the vampire finally said. "Lucien is a good boy…"

Father Tiberius shrugged. "He is like everyone else, Master Valtieri. He has his good and bad." An expression Vicente was unable to decipher flashed on the Imperial's face. "Beside, beware of appearances." the priest added softly. "And of lies. Howldeath thrives on them."

_Appearances… _The word echoed sinisterly in the vampire's head. At least, his hunches were confirmed – even if he wished they were not.

"And why confide such things to a perfect stranger, Father Tiberius?"

The Imperial hesitated and the expression which flashed in across his face was well known by Vicente this time – fear. The vampire could smell it, however faintly.

"Why? Because you and your companions are not from around here." Tiberius replied under his breath. "And honestly, most of what I told you is publicly known, even if it remains widely only whispered."

"But there is something else, am I right?" Vicente asked softly, riveting his eyes to the priest's. "Something you can't confide to one of your flock."

"You are a cultivated and knowledgeable man, Master Valtieri. My parishioners are simple people. Ignorance is bliss." The priest flinched under Vicente's gaze and gulped. "Certain things should stay unearthed…Certain things should never see daylight again…"

"Father," Vicente interrupted him bluntly, "if you want me to help you – because I have the feeling this is what you are looking for – you must stop speaking in riddles."

Father Tiberius stared at Vicente with an anxious look on his face, hesitating on the conduct to adopt. Finally, he took a deep breath, opened his mouth and…

…closed it quickly, his face darkening suddenly as he looked at something behind Vicente's shoulder. Following his gaze, the vampire turned around and growled inwardly when he recognised the figure coming toward them.

_Drothan… _

"I… I'd better go." Father Tiberius babbled, and before waiting for Vicente's reply, he swept away, his blue robes whirling behind him.

Vicente swore under his breath. So close…He was _so close_…

"Ah, Master Valtieri!" Drothan exclaimed pleasantly, once near the vampire. "I was looking for you – but did I interrupt something?" he added as he watched Father Tiberius leaving the cemetery.

"What are you doing here, Master Drothan? Should not you be resting and preparing with the rest of the Dunmer delegation the next round of negotiations?" Vicente growled between gritted teeth as he prepared to take his leave as well.

"You seem rather edgy, Master Valtieri." Drothan said, smirking and blocking Vicente's way. "Is there something wrong?"

"Everything was fine until you popped up in my immediate vicinity, Master Drothan." Vicente snapped back. He was definitely not in the mood to be polite. "And now please get out of my way."

The Dunmer smirked a little bit more but moved sideways nevertheless, letting Vicente limp away from him.

"Just for you to know, Master Vicente… Lord Dren was looking for you." Drothan said in a casual tone in Vicente's back. "He desperately wants your opinion on a minuet he wrote."

"He will have to find someone else with whom to discuss his work." Vicente growled back, not bothering to turn around.

"Ah, I see. He will be extremely disappointed, you know." Drothan's voice continued behind him. "But I guess he will cheer up by having a nice little chat with Lucien instead…"

Vicente's already dead, cold blood froze a little bit more in his veins as the implications of Drothan's remark were all too obvious. He turned back and limped as fast as he could toward the Dark Elf, pointing angrily at his chest with his cane once near him.

"Your paedophiliac friend had better not let himself succumb to his _perverse _leaningsin my presence!" the vampire snarled. "Especially not with Lucien! I doubt the Baron would appreciate…"

"After the nice little scene we saw a few minutes ago, _I_ doubt Lord Saevus cares much about his _bastard._" Drothan sniffed with supreme disregard. "Beside, you are quite an expert in terms of vile instincts, aren't you?"

Vicente's eyes narrowed dangerously behind the slits of his mask. "I am sick and tired of your _insinuations_, Drothan! If you have something to say to me, say it now or shut up!"

The Dunmer's face glowed with malevolent glee. He was obviously enjoying the dramatic build. "You want frankness? You shall have it." He hissed with a sly smile. "I know what you are, Valtieri. I know you are a vampire."

Drothan had spat the last word with as much loath as he could. As for Vicente, he felt as if he had been punched hard in the stomach.

For a moment, one could only hear the sound of the rain and of water drizzling down the water pipes of the chapel.

In Vicente's head, thoughts galloped about at high speed. How did Drothan know? Why did he tell Vicente he knew? Should Vicente kill him on the spot? The result of this brainstorm was so confusing it left Vicente dumfounded and unable to reply anything.

"Oh, and tell Lady Trencavel to forget about _it_. She is meddling with forces too strong for her." Drothan patted the still shocked Vicente on the shoulder. "Have a pleasant day, Master Valtieri."

The Dark Elf turned his back on the vampire, leaving him still stunned and alone in the cemetery, swept by the rain.

7777777777777777

Sigrid blinked, letting her senses slowly resume contact with reality before squinting at something brilliant dangling before her eyes.

"It is done!" the female Khajiit hairdresser standing behind Sigrid exclaimed happily, continuing to dangle a bronze mirror before Sigrid's face. "You look so lovely!" She purred, using the usual mantra of people uncertain of their work and wanting to prevent any critics and payment refusals.

Still feeling a bit dizzy after her "stay" in Vicente's thoughts, Sigrid took the mirror in a shaky hand, eying herself critically while letting her fingers run through her now short, dark locks.

"You like it?" the hairdresser asked anxiously.

"Yeah… I do… I think." Sigrid replied unsteadily, pinching some of the locks to make them stand one way or the other.

Gosh, incredible what a good hair-cut could do. With her hair cut like that she looked like…

"…_Ten years younger."_ Clairvoix said, reading her mind. _"A nice change. Long hair made you look like a granny."_

"_Gee, thanks."_ Sigrid replied bitterly as she handed the mirror back to the hairdresser and got up.

"_You'__re welcome. I'm such a gentleman."_ The sword giggled. _"And those 'local' robes you bought this morning are very flattering."_

"_For the last time, it's called a 'bubu', Clairvoix."_ Sigrid replied absentmindedly while dropping a few septims in the hand of the hairdresser before taking her leave.

"_Yeah,__ bubu, bobo, whatever… They're great – the orange and blue colours don't match your eyes though." _

Sigrid sighed heavily as she got out of the shop and started to walk on the dark volcanic rock flagstones of Corinth's street, the porous surfaces crunching under her sandals.

The streets were busy, full of Khajiiti pilgrims – as well as, though in far fewer quantities, pilgrims from other parts of the Empire – whose behaviour contrasted with that of the pilgrims of the Nine Sigrid had met on her way to the Imperial City.

If religious fervour was synonymous in Cyrodiil of adopting a meditative and stiff – in some extreme case, _constipated_ – air, in Elsweyr, it was mainly about speaking loudly, hailing one another and laughing. Actually, Sigrid had not seen many Elsweyrian cities yet, but everything here seemed to be about noise and excitement.

"My dear Clairvoix, you are positively _coquettish_." The Breton woman remarked aloud, now they were in the busy outside where no one paid any particular attention to them.

"_Coquettish? Me? Yeah, I am totally the kind that spends all my time looking at myself in a mirror going 'hey Sigrid, tell me the truth, does my sheath make me look faaaaat?'"_

Sigrid grinned. "Your sheath _does_ make you look fat, Clairvoix." she responded sweetly.

"What_?"_ The sword gave a panicky squeak as Sigrid continued trying not to smile at its distress. _"Oh. You're joking. Very funny. Ahahah. Sorry if I don't roll on the floor laughing, as I don't have a body…"_

The woman rolled her eyes and gave Clairvoix' sheath a light slap. "All right, enough foolishness. Let's try to find Ashar in that mess. She said she was going with U'baba and U'bhuti to the Temple to see how and when we could see the Oracle."

"_Very kind of her."_ Clairvoix observed.

"_Too_ kind of her." Sigrid growled. "I find her eagerness to stick around with us highly suspicious."

"_You had __a bad preconceived idea about her right from the beginning…"_ Clairvoix sighed._ "Besides, we don't have much choice for the moment as we are nearly penniless, having lost almost all our belongings in the shipwreck and then in the mercenary attack. The only valuables artefacts we have left are, well, _me_, and the ring Martin offered you…"_

Clairvoix wished it had not said it.

At the words, Sigrid's hand flew toward the little purse hidden in her corset, which contained the so-precious ring. "Over my dead body!" she snarled, before a sly expression materialised on her face. "But maybe I could sell _you_…"

"_Ahahaha. You__'re absolutely hilarious today, you know?" _Clairvoix said in a grating voice. _"But you can think whatever you want._ _If it was not for Ashar's unselfish generosity, we would be screwed."_

"Unselfish generosity – my point _exactly_!" Sigrid said triumphantly. "How many people you barely know would propose to pay for your lodging and food, as well as for clothes and haircuts without wanting something in return?"

"_Well,__ maybe Ashar doesn't like walking around with scarecrows…?" _Clairvoix offered.

"Instead of making cracks like that, maybe you'd better stay on guard." Sigrid's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what she's up to, but she'd better not think it is going to be easy…"

Once again, and as with every time Sigrid experienced a particularly intense feeling, Clairvoix felt that mysterious thing moving about in the recesses of her mind, like an immaterial puddle of tar. As swift as lighting, the sword sent a mental wave to probe it, determined this time not to let it run away.

Unfortunately, at the very moment Clairvoix was going to make contact with the strange thing, Sigrid shut this part of her mind abruptly.

To Clairvoix, it was like getting its fingers caught in a closing door.

"_Oye!"_ it protested. _"Why did you do that? You know it hurts!" _

"And you know you shouldn't have done that." Sigrid spat. "I told you not to search my mind without my permission, and you _agreed._" Her voice became so cold it took almost metallic accents. "If you try that again…"

Sigrid made no effort to veil the threatening tone in her voice and Clairvoix mentally frowned.

Despite the sword's many disagreements with its "mistress", the two had always got on…hmm, maybe not _well,_ but at least _got on_. True, their relationship was mainly made off digs and jokes tainted with slighted wariness, but it had seemed – to Clairvoix at least – that after Sigrid's death and resurrection, their relationship had became _friendlier_.

But it was wrong. Sigrid was withdrawing into herself more and more, treating Clairvoix like a foreign body – which he was, but still…!

And now, she'd threatened him – something she had never done before and the sword was finding it increasingly difficult to cope with her temper. If Clairvoix had sworn to assist Sigrid, this did not wipe out the fact it was still the spirit of a powerful necromancer. And even if it had softened greatly over the centuries, Clairvoix was finding growingly difficult to shut up that little voice yelling to it to pulverise once and for all, that moody pain that treated it like a nobody.

Nevertheless, the sword grinned and bore it. Given their precarious situation, opening hostilities was the not the wisest thing to do. But as Sithis its witness, it would not last forever…

"_Well, that's all well and good, but I thought you wanted to find another alchemist to ask to him to check Toad…_" Clairvoix said, deftly changing the subject.

As if he had caught the exchange of thoughts between Sigrid and Clairvoix, Toad popped out his head from in between Sigrid's breasts. "Rabbit?" he croaked.

"Oh, you. Now is not the moment." Sigrid grumbled, pressing a finger on Toad's head to push him back into her corset.

Unfortunately the amphibian was ready to take a bit of fresh air. He quickly dragged himself out of Sigrid's cleavage, nimbly jumping onto her shoulder before climbing onto her head.

"Ah no!" an indignant Sigrid exclaimed, grabbing the toad by its legs to force him back down.

"Rabbiiiiiiit!" The creature protested, clutching to her short hair.

The fight lasted for a few seconds, making bystanders giggle, until Sigrid finally gave up, defeated by Toad's vigorous and unexpected resistance.

"_It seems our friend is good shape." _Clairvoix laughed.

"Now do you understand why I don't feel it necessary to go and see another alchemist? This little _pest_ is perfectly _fine_! No more gleaming catatonic state, just pure healthy annoyance." Sigrid moaned while pushing one of Toad's legs which away from her eyes as the batrachian continued moving around to find a comfortable position. "And given what happened with the alchemist this morning…"

"_Well, asking the old dude__ bluntly about Foodoo was _not_ exactly the best idea." _Clairvoix observed.

"No really? I did not notice." Sigrid replied sarcastically, while pushing Toad aside a bit to massage a bump on the top of her head. "Is it because he kicked us out of his shop, or because he tried to beat me over the head with his stick that makes you say that? And why all the old men in this country feel necessary to beat you over the head with their stick anyway!?"

"_Must be a tradition." _Clairvoix mused. _"Still, your total lack of diplomacy and subtlety was kind of useful." _

"Yeah." Sigrid replied, sarcasm dripping off her voice once more. "We learnt a lot indeed. He called Toad a 'fetish' and told me I was marked by 'Baron Saturdas' before yelling me to get out...Very informative indeed."

"_More than you think__." _

The woman raised an eyebrow. "And in what way, pray?"

"_Elementary, my dear Sigrid!"_ Clairvoix exclaimed, shooting her a mental wink. _"Thanks to that unfortunate incident, we know that Foodoo may actually still be well-known among Khajiits, even if not practised and kind of…,"_ the sword lowered his voice dramatically,_ "_taboo_. Moreover, whatever 'fetish' meant, the alchemist reaction at the sight of Toad proved he is linked to Foodoo, the dreaded 'Old Art'."_

At the words, Sigrid looked upward. Toad bent forward at the same moment and started patting her forehead with the tip of his antennas. "Rabbit?"

"Are you telling that I have created a dumb amphibian linked to Foodoo out of a bloodthirsty pirate? Just like that? 'Poof'?" Sigrid demanded mockingly, pushing Toad back on her head.

"_Yes._" the sword confirmed._ "If I remember correctly, you _wanted_ to turn Barrow into a slimy toad during your magical...fit of anger." _Temper tantrum might well have been more accurate, but Clairvoix decided not to push its luck. Sigrid was, after all, in a funny mood. "_But don't ask me _why_ the pirate 'poofed' into that particular sensitive-to-Foodoo toad. It is beyond my comprehension…" _

Sigrid smirked. "Destiny? It tends to get in my way a lot…"

"_Or Chance." _Clairvoix pointed out_. "As far as you are concerned, Chance tends to get in the way a lot too…"_

"Yeah, I feel totally lucky…" Sigrid sighed as they arrived by the foot of the Temple, on an avenue surrounded by small stalls, jam-packed with pilgrims, porters and self-declared Prophets who, standing on boxes, were haranguing the crowd either about Better Times To Come or the End of the World. Incidentally, two of them had decided to 'support' their arguments by trying to strangle one another, encouraged by the on-lookers.

Unwilling to fight her way through all the agitation, Sigrid pinpointed a low wall between two stalls. She elbowed her way toward it, collapsing heavily on it, trying to isolate herself as much as possible from the flow of living people.

"Amazing." she grumbled. "I thought Elsweyrian roads were too dangerous at the moment to travel on. And here's Corinth, packed with people – some of them from other _provinces_…"

"_Faith moves Aetherius and Oblivion."_ Clairvoix remarked. "_The Oracle is popular all around the Empire. Unlike you, many people believe in its predictions."_

"And can Faith do anything about terrible back pain?" Sigrid winced, trying to stretch her aching spine while the baby started another kicking session.

"_It doesn't get better?" _Clairvoix asked curiously.

Sigrid had a derisive little laugh which made Toad jump. "No. The climbing of Kilim'Djaro did not help. In addition, the little nuisance kicking my belly and, I think, _punching_ me as well now, doesn't make it better either."

The last remark plunged Clairvoix into great confusion. _"Er… I may not be an expert on the matter, but babies don't punch…"_

"I don't know. Maybe they don't…feels like it, though." Sigrid shrugged and turned her attention behind her, to wonderful scenery stretching endlessly on.

The view from the holy city of Corinth was impressive, offering a sight on a good hundred of kilometres around Mount Kilim'Djaro.

The permanent snow topping it shone under the bright sunlight, making fog rise in the air, while the grating of the metallic baskets used to ferry people to and fro assured the link between the top of the glacier and the three gates of the city.

Sigrid had been surprised to discover the city was not built on the tableland - which was actually the summit of the old volcano - but around a pointed rocky protrusion. The geologic eccentricity pointed like a gigantic needle toward the intense blue sky, surrounded by a large and deep ravine, at the bottom of which the sounds of a torrent could be heard.

Just before taking the basket across the ravine and into the city, Sigrid remembered how Corinth reminded her of a giant snake winding up around the rocky outcrop. This was certainly the architect of the city had wanted when he had organised the city around one main street, which meandered from the bottom to the Temple onwards.

"_Ah… It seems the optimistic prophet is taking advantage over the pessimistic__ one."_ Clairvoix observed.

Sigrid turned back to watch the scene, and indeed, the champion of the Better Times to Come was literally making his opponent bite the dust.

As the fight was nearly over, two guards of the Temple finally deigned to intervene, passing in front of a stone wall as they do so, which attracted Sigrid's attention.

"Clairvoix?" she asked blankly puzzled.

"_Yes?"_

Sigrid pointed in front of her. "What are those scribble things on the wall over there?"

Clairvoix rolled its eyes metaphorically. _"These are not 'scribble things', you _Orc_ (__**1**__)! They are bas-reliefs, illustrating the Ingan'kwane – or if you prefer, the Khajiiti version of the Monomyth. Fascinating really."_

Sigrid got up and walked laboriously through the crowd toward the wall. Once near it, she let her eyes run across the stones.

The scenes represented in bright bas-reliefs were extremely stylised yet perfectly readable for someone as uninformed as Sigrid on the subject of Khajiiti mythology. There can be seen Khajiits conducting different activities, but two figures in particular came back regularly in the frieze.

Both of Khajiiti general aspect, that is to say ornamented with a pair of cat ears and a tail, the first one was holding in _her_ hands – the silhouette was _definitely_ a she – a star and a crescent, while the second wore a carefully clipped beard and was leaning nonchalantly on a cane.

Their attributes were too obvious for Sigrid not being able to recognise them. "Azura and Sheogorath…" she said, letting a finger running on the stones while on her head, Toad woke and leaning forward to take a better view.

"Azurah_ and _Sheggorath_."_ Clairvoix corrected, using the Khajiiti pronunciation_. "This part of the frieze narrates the confrontation between the two Daedra to gain the favour of the Khajiits, or Desert Runners as they like to be called."_

Sigrid gave an amused smile. "Feeling like sharing your awesome knowledge with me, O You the Most Erudite Artefact on Nirn?"

For the second time, Clairvoix frowned. A few minutes ago, Sigrid was threatening him, and now she was flattering it in the most obvious way that could be.

Not being a specialist of pregnant women, the sword could not say if such a change in attitude could be linked to her current state, but the frequency and the amplitude of Sigrid's mood swings were starting to get worrisome.

"_Well…"_ Clairvoix gave a cough to clear its voice and started to speak, using a dramatic narration tone. "_What you see here is the actually the last episode and the conclusion of the quarrel. According to the legend, tired and vexed at not being able to defeat his rival __Azurah__, __Sheggorath__ decided that desperate times called for desperate measure. Thus he went back to his Realm, the Shivering Isles, and brought from there a __cutting of the Tree of Shade – a tree said to plunge its roots to the core of the Realm of Madness – which he planted in the fertile ground in the south of Elsweyr."_

As Clairvoix told the story, Sigrid's eyes slowly followed the drawings illustrating the sword's words. Toad was very attentive as well, his bulging eyes riveted on the wall.

"_The cutting prospered, and mixing with the local fauna, produced the Forest of Tenmar."_ Clairvoix continued. _"But more than the forest, the cutting also created a thick mangrove of special canes which, to the Khajiits' greatest amazement, started to crystallise in the water around them a substance __Sheggorath__called..."_

"… Moon Sugar." Sigrid ended, glaring at the dancing figures of Khajiits surrounding Sheogorath brandishing in his right hand a sugarloaf while the other held a goatskin bottle she suspected to be full of Skooma.

"_Exactly.__"_ Clairvoix confirmed. _"__Sheggorath__explained to the Khajiits the Moon Sugar canes absorbed the divine essence of the moons Masser and Secunda – Jode and Jone in Ta'agra – trapped in the gigantic mirror that is the Topal Sea is and that consuming it or its derivates would open new and unsuspected worlds to the Desert Runners." _

"Artificial Paradises. Mankar Camoran would have loved it…" Sigrid sniggered. She then frowned when a thought crossed her mind. "But… I thought the moons Masser were associated to Azura, and not to Sheogorath…?"

"_They are."_ Clairvoix chuckled. _"And this was __Sheggorath__'s way to thumb it nose at Azurah, who, as you may have guessed, did not appreciate it…" _The sword's voice became serious again. _"When Azurah realised what was going on, it was too late. So, out of rage, she cut off a branch of the cutting which had prospered into a gigantic tree Khajiits now called the 'Heart of Tenmar'. She then turned toward Jode and Jone and blamed them bitterly for having taking part in __Sheggorath__'s evil plan – even if unwittingly."_

Clairvoix paused, to give Sigrid time to look at the figure of Azura, towering over three silhouettes, whose heads were topped, respectively, with a full silver circle, a half one and finally a fine crescent.

"I guess the two first figures represent Masse… _Jode and Jone_," Sigrid corrected herself, "but what about the third one?"

In her mind, Sigrid felt Clairvoix smiling hugely. _"Have you heard of Occultus, the 'hidden' moon on which scholars have speculated over for hundreds of years, but the existence of which has never been proved, despite the use of extremely complicated mythical, magical and mathematical formulas?"_

"Yes, even if you know very well I have _never_ been able to understand _any_ of those complicated mythical, magical and mathematical formulas…" Sigrid growled, remembering her early days spent in her father's manor. Many teachers had tried to get mathematics into her head, but the simple sight of the formulas made Sigrid felt like her brain was melting out of her ears.

"_Well__, like you, Khajiits don't care about complicated mythical, magical and mathematical formulas." _Clairvoix laughed. _"They are convinced Occultus exists, and they call it 'Jabu'."_

"Jabu…" Sigrid repeated, looking closely at the little silhouette crowned with a crescent and was setting back from the two others.

"_Jabu, the Wise One, who prefers stay aside and contemplates__ Creation rather than taking an active part in it._" Clairvoix whispered._"Being the only one of the three moons not to have played a part in __Sheggorath's__plan, Azurah begged Jabu to renounce to its contemplative state and to help her into freeing her people from __Sheggorath__'s grip._"

Sigrid grinned. Those mythic stuffs could be so predictable. "Don't tell me… Jabu refuses, leaving Azura without a prayer with her Desert Runners as high as a kite until those days…"

Clairvoix gave a disapproving cough. _"Not exactly. Jabu indeed refused to intervene directly in the affairs of Mundus, but moved by Azurah's distress, it nevertheless agreed to help the Daedra."_

Sigrid's eyes continue to follows the pictures on the wall, and stopped on the one where Jabu was seen offering something like a gemstone to Azura.

"_Jabu gave Azura a bit of itself, the Stone of Jabu, containing part of its immense wisdom. Then, the Occulted Moon announced to the Daedra it will associate with Jode and Jone to give birth to a special breed of Khajiit, one who, impregnated by the divine essence of the three moons, will be able to guide the Desert Runners to Wisdom. And this is how the Mane, the spiritual leader of the Khajiits who transcends all the levels of the Elsweyrian society, was born."_

On the wall, the scene was represented by the three moons facing in single file a Khajiit and raising their hands in sign of blessing.

"What about the Stone of Jabu?" Sigrid asked.

"_Azurah cut it into two. The first part, she placed it in Corinth, for Wisdom being available for those looking for it – this is the Oracle. The second part, she put it on the top of the branch she had cut from the Heart of Tenmar, creating the Moons Staff. The latter symbolises both the legitimacy of the Mane as well as the superiority of Azurah to __Sheggorath__."_

"Whoa…" Sigrid said. Not a very constructive comment, but she was too impressed to come up with something else.

She then turned around toward the scenery. Far away, on the horizon, the dark mass of Tenmar was visible. Tenmar, the sacred forest, brought by Sheogorath to Mundus... Sigrid shivered. "And how much truth is there to this story?"

"_Probably a lot.__"_ Clairvoix said thoughtfully. "_Actually, there is an interesting argument going on among scholars, saying Elsweyr is the reflection in Nirn of Sheogorath's Realms. The Shivering Isles are said to be a land of duality, composed of the bright and dark sides of madness. This marked duality can be found in Elsweyr too, with the dry, unfertile north and its nomadic tribes, while the south is wet, fertile and mainly inhabited by a sedentary population."_

The remark was welcomed in a dumfounded silence.

"By the Nines, how do you know _all that_?" Sigrid asked, half-laughing half-incredulous.

"_I _read_, my dear – unlike you."_ the sword added reproachfully. _"Beside, I used to participate into such kind of debates before, you know, I got…obsessed with necromancy."_

"I see." Sigrid bit her lower lip and scanned the very last picture of the frieze. The Mane was sat, his legs tucked under him, blessing a vast number of Khajiits, offering him their manes in sign of respect and submission. Above is head was a symbol consisting of a full circle, a half one and a crescent moon linked together by a thin silver line.

Her eyes widened in shock.

_Oh no…_

"And… what is the… symbol over the Mane's head?" Sigrid asked in an unsteady voice.

"_Oh this? It is __the _Thathuwu_, the sign of the Mane, whose existence – as you now know – is ruled by the Moons and Azurah's wisdom. The different circles represent the three Moo… – Sigrid, are you all right? You look very pale…"_

The woman was glaring at the symbol, as if hypnotised by it.

"The sign…" she finally whispered. "U'bhuti… The baby… He has it on his back."

This time, it was Clairvoix' turn to sound totally dumbfounded. _"What?!"_ It squeaked out, causing several bystanders to shot Sigrid curious look.

"Yes. I saw it the night that strange green wind flew in the plains from Tenmar."

The young woman closed her eyes and sighed in despair, her worst fears confirmed.

In what kind of sticky situation had she gotten herself into _now?_

"_Do you realise what this means?"_ Clairvoix asked again in a concerned voice.

"I am afraid I do."

"_It got off to a bad start, hey…?"_

Sigrid smirked mirthlessly. "As usual, I would say."

But she did not get more time to dwell on her misfortune. The weirdest scream she had ever heard, even by Khajiiti standards, pierced the air.

"Noodles time!"

**(1)** Orcs, in Tamriel or in the rest of the Universe, are not renowned for their refinement and culture.

But if they don't have much refinement and culture, they usually have big axes, and people have found their life expectancy extend noticeably by _not_ telling them this.


	15. Plots

**Chapter 14 –**** Plots**

**Thanks a lot to Raven Studio for being such an awesome beta reader! 8D**

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"_(…) The Virgins of Dagomey take their name after the semi-infertile region where they reside and which is located north of the Kilim'Djaro – a logical geographical position for a group which has dedicated its existence to the protection of Azura's Chosen, the Mane (…)._

_If __their existence is interlinked with the one of the Mane, many aspects of their life and culture remains unknown – apart, of course, for all the folklore around their renowned tendency to kill and eat the head of their partners after they mated._

_(…) On the social level, the Clan of the Virgins is, like all clans in Elsweyr, very hierarchical. The top ruling body of the Virgins is composed by the 'Sisters of the Mane', the title of all the females born the same night as the Mane. The rest of the Clan is composed by both Sisters and their children, the latter being called the 'Daughters of the Mane'. _

_It is interesting to notice that the Sisters can only have one child in their life__, while the Mane is sterile. The reason of this restriction has not been elucidated yet, and (…)"_

David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr", on the Virgins of Dagomey.

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"By Azurah – how he's doing _that_?"

"The Gods must be with him…"

"Nah, it's just beginner's luck!"

Ontus Vanin smirked, stroking a fat finger under his nose while, around in the tavern, the public continued to marvel at his performances.

"So, tell me…Do you want to drop it now, or do you want to continue to get trashed?" the old mage teased the three Khajiits he was facing – a Suthay-Raht, a Dagi-Raht and a Tojay-Raht.

The latter exchanged uncertain glances. Nothing was going according to their plan. The fatty Imperial looked too sure of himself, and that was making them ill-at-ease. Normally, it was _they_ who fleeced the tourists at the "goblets" game – and not the contrary.

"Let's play the return game – for two hundred septims." the Suthay-Raht grumbled, picking on the ground a little black stone and hiding it under one of the goblets.

The Dagi-Raht gritted his teeth as he nudged his companion. "I hope you're sure, man. Because we've already lost all yesterday's gains."

"Maybe you should listen to your friend." Vanin chuckled, a sly expression on his face. "After all, it is your fifth 'return' game…"

Imperturbable, the Suthay-Raht began moving the goblets around very fast, in complicated patterns, before stopping brusquely and showing the goblets to Vanin with a smirk on his face. "Ahah!" he exclaimed. "So where's the stone now, Smart One?"

Vanin did not flinch and pointed at the goblet in the middle. "Under this one."

The mocking air of the Suthay-Raht turned into a triumphal one. "Lost, _bwala_!" He exclaimed, lifting the goblet up. "Because it is not – _it is there_?!"

The people in the tavern roared in laugher as the dumfounded Khajiit goggled with eyes like saucer at the tiny black stone which appeared from under the goblet. "But…! But…!" He babbled, calling upon his friends as witnesses. The Dagi-Raht looked very gloomy, while the Tojay-Raht slapped his forehead, whining as his whiskers quivered over the thought of the money lost. "All right guys, I think this is _mine._" Vanin said, grabbing a very fat purse standing on one side of the table. He then got up and patted the Suthay-Raht cheerfully on the shoulder. "And thanks for the game. It was _very_ entertaining."

Without waiting for an answer, Vanin took his amidst the applause of the beaming onlookers, Khajiits patting him on the back and giving him the thumbs up while he adroitly moved his belly around in the crowd to reach a little table stuck in a corner.

The table was empty, apart from a lonely hooded silhouette which was drumming its fingers against a goblet full of a liquid smelling strongly of lemon. From under the table was coming a noise very similar to someone enthusiastically chewing something…

"Tadaaa!" Vanin exclaimed triumphantly, throwing the purse on the table, just in front of the hooded figure.

"And you are proud of yourself, Master Vanin?" the voice of Count Janus Hassildor said from under the hood as his Imperial companion sat on the bench in front of him.

Vanin opened two very innocent eyes. "Why shouldn't I be, my lord? I won!"

"You cheated. As every time you play a game." the Count replied flatly.

"Ooooh, don't tell me." Vanin said as he shook a finger under Hassildor's nose. "You are still annoyed about that chess game we played, where I tried to make your key pieces disappear by discreetly swallowing them, aren't you?"

"I saw you using Elfigarius' Fantastic Teletransportation Spell on the stone." Hassildor carried on, preferring not to pick up the remark about the chess game as a series of embarrassing images of him trying to help Vanin spitting one piece stuck in his windpipe flashed in his mind.

"More precisely, Uldilaril's version of it." Vanin admitted, opening the purse. He took a coin, admiring it in dim light provided by the small window before starting to play with it. "But there is nothing wrong in stealing the thieves, isn't it?"

Hassildor could not help but smile as he shot a quick glance at the three unlucky Khajiits who were now arguing on the other side of the tavern. "The thieves in question may disagree… And what are you going to do with all this money anyway?"

"What am I going to do? But buy more of their infamous beer!" Vanin guffawed while making a sign for a waitress to come at their table. "As well as more bones for Furball – what do you think of that, my little fluffy friend?"

An appreciative "whiff" came from under the table, quickly followed by a "burp".

The Count rolled his eyes, but Hassildor kept his criticism to himself, lest Vanin call him a killjoy. Again. "Well, at least, I hope that in between goblets games and slaps on the waitresses' buttocks you have managed to glean some useful information…" Hassildor sighed.

After all, it was the reason of their presence in this stinking hole. Vanin had dragged them in one of the most animated Skooma bars in the most popular district – although it seemed that not much Skooma was flooding around – to "gauge the feeling of the population".

Well, the Count had come, gauged and knew the only thing he wanted was to go somewhere else – _anywhere else_ – because, if to Vanin and his big, unrefined and somewhat romantic schnozzle the place was saying "rare and exotic perfumes of a land untouched by modern civilisation", Hassildor's ultra sensible vampire sense of smell was simply yelling "rare and exotic perfumes of a land untouched by basic and modern principles of hygiene".

"I am afraid I haven't managed to come up with much, my lord. But the night is young!" Vanin's expression became suddenly very serious, before Hassildor could voice the groan of frustration currently battering against his clenched teeth. "You know, the people of Torval remind me of this 'three little monkeys' Akaviri statuette of yours: see no evil, hear no evil…"

"… speak no evil." Hassildor ended. He scanned the surrounding to see if they were being watched. But the crowd of revellers seemed to have forgotten about Vanin, all busy watching a young female Khajiit performer executing a dance mainly consisting in shaking her hips and bottom quickly and in a very suggestive way to the greatest pleasure of the male audience. "Given the iron fist with which the new rulers of Torval are dealing with the affairs of the country, such silence has to be expected…"

"Especially when strangers are asking the questions." Vanin shot the vampire a sidelong look while a little satisfied smile appeared on his lips. "Nevertheless, people's mind and tongues are not totally locked for the one who knows how to loosen them – oh thank you, love!"

A young waitress had just put on the table by Vanin a large pint of foaming beer. The old mage winked at her, making the cat girl giggle flirtatiously and Hassildor sigh in annoyance.

"You should try to relax a bit, my lord." Vanin said once the waitress was gone. "Enjoy the beer, the ladies and the good times! Frankly, it is not good to be uptight like that. You are going to end up with a stomach ulcer."

Hassildor's face darkened as his eyes fell on the lemonade in his goblet. After dehydration, ulcers... "Leave us forget about my health for the present, and focus on our current problem: namely a powerful and very likely invincible politician up to something not very orthodox and decidedly not wishing us anything but ill." he said dryly.

Vanin did not seem at all vexed by the Count's remark, but he did not reply immediately – or rather, did not reply verbally. Instead, he plunged a forefinger in his mug and started to write letters with it on the table. Hassildor watched it going on and frowned.

The letters formed two words. A name.

_Mama Sam._

"It's the name keeps coming back in conversations about the attack on the palace the other night." Vanin explained in a low voice, anticipating the Count's question before bringing the mug to his lips. "And even if my drunken informers did not say it clearly, I still managed to understand that she is a feared 'mambo' witch and that she bears quite a grudge against Mister I-Got-Crushed-By-Tons-Of-Rock-But-Ahaha-I'm-Fine-Now Raksada…"

Hassildor winced at the mention of the Dunmer's name and shot the mage a disapproving look. "I wish you tried to avoid mentioning_ him_ by his name. Walls have ears…"

The remark made Vanin smile cheekily. "Is it truly the walls and their potential ears you fear, my lord? Or something else…?"

The Count stiffened at the words, knowing too well what Vanin was implying. "I am not afraid of _him_." He growled.

"I am." Vanin replied calmly. "And maybe you should be too. As you said, it is not very common to find oneself confronted with an 'invincible politician up to something not very orthodox'…" He took a sip from his mug and glared at the name written on the table. "But maybe I am wrong, given some seem quite eager to defy him…"

"We need to contact that 'Mama Sam', whoever she is." Hassildor said thoughtfully, tapping the name which was already evaporating with his forefinger. "And quickly. By the way, any idea of what 'mambo' is?" His eyes moved toward the dancing female Khajiit, still centre of the male customers' attention. "Another local glamorous dance, perhaps?"

"I have no clue." Vanin shrugged. "But I hope I will be able to find a reference to it in Deadstone's '_Out of Elsweyr_', once we get back to the Palace. Despite the fact the author is constantly changing the subject, the book is peppered of extremely interesting information. Do you remember that symbol on the cover? Well, it…"

The mage stopped as Hassildor, by a sign, ordered him to become silent. Vanin followed his friend's glance and his eyes fall upon a shrunken little - figure struggling through the press of the crowd.

After having visited the rest of the tables of the tavern, an old beggar was walking toward theirs. Under the hood, Vanin saw a face so wrinkled it reminded him of his old creased robes he stuffed in piles in the bottom of his closet, but despite the lines, he managed to determine it was feminine.

"A coin for a poor old cat…" the beggar asked in a pathetic quavering voice once near the duo, holding her hand out for money. "For a poor sick lady with young cubs and…"

Hassildor looked away, clearly annoyed at the prospect of having to suffer the inventory of the Khajiit's problems. And he was certain Vanin, fool that he was, could not resist the urge to play the benefactor...

He wasn't wrong.

"Ah, my poor, poor lady!" the mage exclaimed gently, joining his hands in front of him as if in prayer and looking moved. "Today is my lucky day, and it would be wrong of me not to share that luck with the less fortunate …" he added, jingling the purse on the table and producing a coin to the beggar.

But the Khajiit did not take it. As quick as lighting, she grabbed Vanin by the wrist and forced him to bend toward her.

She was not counting on the old mage's reflexes, acquired during his days in the Battlemage Commandos. In less than a heartbeat, Vanin had grabbed the dagger hanging around his large waist and was pointing it at the table at the beggar's chest. With all eyes still on the dancer at the front of the room, no one notices, and the Khajiit did not cry out.

"I strongly advise you to avoid any kind of sudden movements." the mage said calmly as the beggar let his wrist go. "You really would not like being ran getting run through by this poisoned _and_ enchanted dagger." Vanin declared genially.

To his surprise, however, the Khajiiti beggar did not look scared at all. She met the mage's glance with a gleam of amused defiance in her eyes, before she looked down at the small of her back when something pointy pricked her there.

Hassildor had moved along the bench to get closer to her and Vanin, and was now also pointing a weapon at her.

"If Vanin's dagger doesn't kill you, mine will." The Count said softly to the beggar. "You won't make it three steps, if it breaks the skin." '. He pressed a little harder to illustrate his point.

Again, the beggar did not seem flustered. Rather, she shot the two men a charming smile. "Before you make any rash decisions, _bwalas_, I strongly suggest you look down…" She said in a very deep and determined voice – a voice used to commanding, and having those commands followed.

Hesitantly, but clearly feeling like they really would rather comply or else end up facing a bad surprise, the two men followed the beggar's advice and discreetly looked down.

Hassildor's eyes widened slightly while Vanin uttered an admiring whistle.

The Khajiit had unsheathed her claws, and the long, sharp points were now only a few centimetres from both men's crotches.

"By the little pile of ashes once called Hannibal Traven… Amazing." Vanin said softly. "Congratulations ma'am. I did not see you move at all!"

"Absolutely wonderful indeed." Hassildor added in a mocking voice. "Should we run each other through now, or, given you are literally holding us by the balls, shall we all try to calm down and discuss this like civilised people?"

The beggar fixed her eyes on Hassildor. And By what he saw in there, and despite the fact vampires were extremely rare in Elsweyr – if nonexistent for obvious reasons - the Count was certain this particular Khajiit was well informed on him and his kind.

The claws finally disappeared into silky fingers, and the daggers followed suit, the three of them taking places at the table.

"My name is M'thunzi. You don't know me, but_ I_ know _you_." The beggar said in a low voice, her eyes still riveted to Hassildor's. "I have a message for you – from someone who needs your help."

The Count exchanged a quick look with Vanin. Honestly, as an introduction, it was a pretty uninformative one.

"You are being observed." M'thunzi continued. "The third Khajiit on the left of the bar. The Cathay-Rath…"

The Count and the mage's eyes moved into that direction. A Cathay-Rath was indeed leaning on the counter, observing the trio. He quickly looked away when his glance met Hassildor's.

"We have been suspecting that for a while." The Count started, mentally frowning at the fact he had not been able to identify the spy by himself. "But how do you…?"

"We need to get rid of him before we can speak freely." M'thunzi interrupted him insistently. "I have already attracted too much attention to both you and myself, but I won't leave without having talked to you. Is there a way you can free us of this intrusive presence…?"

Again, Hassildor and Vanin exchanged a glance. An awful smile appeared on the latter's face.

"Of course we can." The mage sniggered and bend under the table. "Furball?"

M'thunzi almost gave a jump when something, white, hairy and drooling abundantly while chewing a marrowbone popped up in front of her from under the table.

"Whiff?" Furball barked happily, before he saw the female Khajiit and started to growl.

"No Furball, not that one." Vanin said gently. "Do you see the big kitty over there?" He added, pointing at the Cathay-Rath who now looking at the trio again, frowning and obviously wondering what was going on.

"Whiff!"

Vanin beamed. "Go get the kitty!"

This was all the dog needed. Like a crazy barking, bouncing ping pong ball, he rushed the Cathay-Rath, teeth bared.

The reaction of the Khajiit was immediate – and very classical. His coat bristled, his eyes widened in shock and his mouth opened, uttering and terrible and not so virile "meeeeeowww!", before he rushed out of the place, Furball on his heels.

In the tavern, one could have heard a pin drop. The exotic dancer had stopped dancing, and the Khajiits were looking at each other, hesitating on the conduct to adopt.

Then, a voice rose in the air.

"Fifty bucks on the dog!"

In less than a heartbeat, the whole tavern was emptied – barmaids and manager included – while outside bets flew around over a concert of scared screams and aggressive barks.

"I think we won't be disturbed for a while." Hassildor smirked.

"The gods bless little fluffy drooling dogs and the crazy betting habits of the Khajiiti people." Vanin added with the same expression as his friend.

M'thunzi laughed openly. "Glad to see your reputation is well earned." Her face became serious again. "Because you will need all your talents for what I have to propose you..."

"Let's stop beating around the bush." The Count said bluntly. "You are sent by Princess Naandi, I assume?

"You assume correctly, lord Hassildor." The Khajiit replied, perched by the vampire on the bench. "I am Naandi's humble personal servant."

"If you are a mere humble servant, I am High Chancellor Ocato's _wig_." Vanin chuckled. "Come on, milady. If we are meant to have business together, you'd better tell us everything."

As a reply, M'thunzi smiled and, slowly, unfastened her cloak as well as the top of the bubu dress under it. Hassildor and Vanin looked at each other in a worried way which made the Khajiit laugh again.

"Don't worry bwalas. I have not come here to show off my somewhat out-of-date charms." she said, continuing to unfasten her robe. She then pointed at a little sign on his fur, right in her cleavage. It was very tiny, but distinct enough for Hassildor and Vanin to see a symbol consisting of a full circle, a half one and a crescent moon linked together by a thin silver line.

The vampire frowned. It was the very same symbol that the one on Deadstone's book…

"Do you know what this sign is?" M'thunzi demanded as she pulled herself back together.

"The Sign of the Mane." Vanin answered promptly. "And thus, even if I can't see your dangerous Razor anywhere, you must be a Virgin of Dagomey." He beamed at the puzzled expression of his two companions. "So, what did I win?"

"My respect, _bwala_." M'thunzi replied, visibly impressed as she fussed with her cloak. "Many identify us by our Razor. Very few know we also wear the Sign of …"

"…the Mane himself." The mage ended, winking at her. "And given your great age – with all due respect ma'am – I guess you must belong to that particular cast of the Virgins called 'the Sisters of the Mane'."

The Khajiit looked at him with eyes like saucers. "How do you know all that?!"

"I read a lot…" Vanin replied mysteriously.

"Wait a minute." Hassildor intervened, while making a mental note to ask Vanin all about the Virgins later. "You are a Virgin of Dagomey? One of the Mane's personal guards?"

"As your friend just said, I am." The Khajiit confirmed. A sour expression painted on her face "Or rather was. We've been...well, certainly you have heard…"

"So, a part of the official version of the Mane's demise is true." the Count said softly. "The Virgins of Dagomey have been exterminated."

"Except that the Virgins were decimated trying to_ defend_ the Mane – and not trying to _topple_ him." M'thunzi growled, her voice shaking with anger. She recovered quickly. "You should be careful about what you can hear from the officials in the Kraal."

"Oh, but we are, Mistress M'thunzi, we are." Hassildor's eyes narrowed. "And I guess your presence here has something to do with one of those officials in particular, one we should be particularly _careful_ about..."

"One whose name starts with 'Rak' and ends up with 'sada'." Vanin added helpfully. He smiled when he saw M'thunzi and Hassildor stiffening at the mention of the name.

"Raksada is indeed the reason of my presence." M'thunzi started hesitantly. "My princess and I are convinced he is a menace to Elsweyr, as well as for the rest of the Empire."

Vanin raised an eyebrow. "Elsweyr, surely, but…The Empire…? What makes you think such a thing?"

"Oh, I don't know…" the Khajiit started sarcastically. "The fact he is behind the toppling of the Mane who had good relations with the Elder Council, the fact he razed all the bastions of the Legion from Senchal to Dune, the fact he is building that strange tower outside Torval…"

"Why are you accusing Raksada?" the Count interrupted her. "After all, isn't Sha'ka the current _legal _ruler of Elsweyr and the future Incosi? Isn't he the one supposed to make such decisions?"

The Khajiit's face twisted with anger. "Stop playing the fools with me, _bwalas_." She hissed. "You have stayed here long enough to have realised Sha'ka is only Raksada's puppet and that the Dunmer is more than a simple plotter! How many tons of rocks fell upon his head and leaving left him unscathed? How many more will it take for you to…?"

"What does your princess expect from us, _exactly,_ Mistress M'thunzi?" Hassildor asked her gently. "We are simple emissaries."

M'thunzi hesitated. Her eyes fall upon grabbed Vanin's mug. She grabbed it and took a sip before putting it back on the table.

"Hey!" The mage protested, putting his beer mug out of the reach of the Khajiit.

"Well…" M'thunzi started, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "the Princess wants…_would like _you to help her to find out what Raksada is truly up to, and once he is exposed, to get rid of him. _Definitely_."

Despite the gravity of the moment, M'thuzi could not help but smile inwardly at the contrast in the two Imperials' reaction. Vanin looked like a kid in a candy store while Hassildor looked like he was in the store as well but had picked up a very, _very _acidic candy.

"You know, I like the sound of it…" Vanin started, his eyes looking dreamily in his mug.

"As usual when it comes to the start of a mess." the Count replied coldly to him. He turned toward the Khajiit. "As I mentioned before, we are _emissaries_, not _assassins_ Mistress M'thunzi…"

"You know the object of your mission as emissaries is pointless." the Khajiit retorted. "Raksada has no intention of negotiating. He is just trying to gain time, and if he has not killed you yet, it is certainly because he has more urgent problems to deal with."

"Like with a certain Mama Sam?" Vanin asked in a conversational voice.

The Khajiit remained silent and kept a careful poker face, but both the mage and the Count knew her mind was racing to determine how much they had found out so far.

"Maybe…" She replied prudently.

Hassildor sighed. "Well, you will need more than 'maybes' to convince us, Mistress M'thunzi. So I guess we'll end the conversation now. Good evening." He got up and left the table. "Let's go, Master Vanin. We need to find Furball before getting back to the Kraal."

"But I did not finish my beer – all right, all right, I'm coming_._.." The mage grouched, imitating his companion, and irritated in his turn. It was, after all, very good beer.

The Count gave a slight bow to the Khajiit while pushing Vanin in front of him. As for M'thunzi, she was watching them as if she could not believe they were leaving.

"My lord…" Vanin whispered as they headed toward the exit. "Are you sure…?"

"Shut up and keep walking." The Count replied quietly, smiling.

They were about to get out of the tavern when M'thunzi's voice rose behind them.

"The Mane is still alive." She said at their backs. "Bhek'Iziwe Nowalzi Thenj'Iwe is still _alive_."

Vanin and Hassildor froze.

"Can this be considered as a valuable argument – valuable enough to make us go back there?" Vanin said from the corner of his mouth.

"Actually, it can." The Count said in a low voice, his smile widening slightly.

Both turned on their heels at once and came back to the table. M'thunzi did not make any effort to hide her satisfaction.

"Do you have proof of what you are saying?" Hassildor asked without beating about the bush as he sat back. "Because, if you are just bluffing…"

"Thenj'Iwe managed to flee from Torval with one Virgin who was my personal pupil." M'thunzi cut in. "And no, Count Hassildor, I have no proofs to show you he is alive, as I did my best to destroy them, to prevent Raksada tracking the Mane and his escort. But if you ask around, you won't find anyone that night who remembers seeing him actually dead…"

There was a pause during which Hassildor and M'thunzi glared at each other. Still empty, the tavern was very silent, but outside the atmosphere was pretty lively.

"Instead of looking at me and laughing stupidly, _get that stupid dog off me, you arseholes_!" screamed a hysterical voice belonging to the Cathay-Rath who was apparently still dealing with Furball.

"And ending such a cool show? _Ai'kona_! Are you _crazy_?" some of the bystanders replied, approved by a roar from the rest of the crowd.

In the tavern, the Count and the Khajiit were still observing each other, trying to outstare one another. As for Vanin, his eyes were going back and forth the Khajiit and the vampire, waiting to see who will be the victor of the silent contest.

Sadly for Hassildor, there is no better opponent in such a game than a cat, so slowly but surely, the vampire finally blinked.

"What do you propose, then?" He grunted.

"We need you to help us investigating Raksada's apartments." M'thuzi explained, relieved the Count had at least accepted to listen to her proposal. "I integrated myself into the Dunmer's staff a while ago, to keep an eye on his habits and I have noticed that if most of his apartments are accessible to us, there is one part, which remains locked and in which Raksada doesn't tolerate anyone."

"And in which you suspect him to conduct his unorthodox activities." Vanin finished. "But why have you not tried to get in? You seem to be a rather resourceful person…"

M'thunzi had a sad smile. "It is magically locked, and my skills in the matter, like most Khajiits, are very limited."

"You are asking us to rush into peril, Mistress M'thunzi." Hassildor observed very calmly. "I doubt Raksada will be extremely pleased to find out we have been rifling though his personal quarters…"

"That is why we will do our best for him not to find out, too quickly." M'thunzi replied with a smile. "Besides, better to get killed trying to find a way to beat him rather than patiently waiting for him to get you, don't you think?" Her smile widened.

"I agree." Vanin nodded enthusiastically.

The Count looked back and forth then back and forth again at the two hopeful expressions. He groaned inwardly. He knew M'thunzi was right, that inaction was not protecting him and Vanin from Raksada's schemes. Still, there were a lot of holes in the Khajiit's story. If Mane Thenj'Iwe was still alive, what could prevent him from gathering the remaining forces opposed to the Dunmer and Sha'ka's rule around him? If M'thunzi motivations to get rid of Raksada were clear – revenge – why would her mistress, Princess Naandi, be so eager to throw wrench in the works of her husband Sha'ka? _And what about the mysterious Mama Sam? _

Truly, a lot of questions still needed to be answered. But again, the Count knew he was running out of time and that he may be too late before he got his answers…

"All right. We will help you." he said in a breath.

"Yes! Some action as last!" Vanin exclaimed raising a victorious fist toward the ceiling while the Count looked Aetheriusward.

"If we are going to help you, it will be reasonably so." the Count growled, shooting Vanin a meaningful look. "No fights, no killing – _no murders_. Am I clear?"

"I am so glad you accepted _bwalas_." M'thunzi said heartily. "The people of Elsweyr will eternally be grateful to you."

"Yes, but before that wonderful moment when the Khajiits will carry us in triumph," the Count started with a sarcastic grin, "I think we need to get some more details to expose Raksada's treachery to Sha'ka."

"Yes, of course." The Khajiit agreed. "Actually, it's rather simple. Tomorrow is, as you know, Sha'ka's crowing, and…_Yes_, Master Vanin?" the Khajiit frowned, annoyed at the continued interruptions.

The mage had let out a cough and was now glaring at M'thunzi.

"Er… Before we carry on with the plan… Could I ask you a question? A _personal_ one?" he asked, looking a little embarrassed.

"Go ahead."

"I am really sorry, but this had been on my mind for a while, so…" He coughed again. "Is it true what the rumours say about the Virgins? That you eat the _head _of your partners after mating?"

"_Ontus!_" An offended Hassildor spat.

"No, that's fine." M'thunzi said, putting an appeasing paw on the Count's forearm. "No, Master Vanin, we don't."

Both the mage and the Count looked relieved.

"We prefer chewing their jugular." M'thunzi continued in light-hearted tone, her slanting eyes glittering with humour or malice, or both. "You have no idea how hard on the teeth skulls are."

There was a very embarrassed silence, finally broke by Hassildor.

"Thank you...Let's talk about the plan, now, shall we?"

M'thunzi did not reassure the two men by baring her sharp, glittering teeth in a wide smile.

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Raksada alone stood in the room bathed in dim purplish light.

He had chased the workers and the supervisors away earlier, and now, in the inner sanctum of the Ultimate Resonator, no sound could be heard apart from his deep yet controlled breathing.

Anyone knowing the Dark Elf socially would have difficulty recognise him. He wore just a tiny loincloth, in addition to which, he had totally covered his dark skin in strange and colourful tribal paintings glowing strangely in the dark.

Actually, the paintings had no true magical value themselves – they were just there to add to the atmosphere. And any magical practitioner knew how much atmosphere is important in the practise of mystical arts…

But if atmosphere was important, so was concentration, and thus Raksada continued to breath slowly, his eyes riveted on the small altar located in the centre of the room, on which was laying a tiny necklace – the very one Bombassa and his men had brought him a few hours ago.

The Dark Elf's eyes narrowed.

_How…How_ this necklace could have arrived _here?_ And _now?_

Given what was at stake, Raksada did not believe in coincidence. If Destiny had wanted the necklace to fall into his hands, it was certainly because She had her particular reasons – now it was up to Raksada to make the most out of them.

And the Ultimate Resonator was going to give him a little help.

Of course, the device was not activate yet – it was not even properly finished. Still, even in its dormant state, its magical powers went far beyond everything existing in Nirn and Oblivion, and maybe in the whole Multiverse...

Veins of orichalcum were running all along the building according to monstrously complicated patterns which left nothing to chance, being the result of the meticulous investigations conducted by Raksada, under the supervision of his Master.

The Dunmer sighed as he let his eyes run along the gleaming glyphs formed by the orichalcum. So many years – decades? Centuries? Raksada had lost the count – spent running around the mortal realm as well as those of Oblivion, suffering thousands deaths, overcoming thousands obstacles, foiling the most _twisted _traps to try to understand the exact nature and properties of the mysterious metal.

_Mysterious_…

Orichalcum was actually well known among arcane students, as well as immortal entities. Nevertheless, if some of its most evident properties were not a secret anymore, like its ability to act both as a fantastic magical conductor or repellent, the knowledge of the true power and, above all, _purpose_ of the metal remained the business of a handful of initiated – whose ranks now included a very happy Raksada.

And he was not the only one happy about his inclusion. The Dunmer remembered the pure glee on his Master's face when he had brought him the solution to the problem gnawing at him for millennia.

The _irony_…To think it was their own enemies who had steered them in the right direction and allowed them to discover that orichalcum was nothing less than the basic structure of the Multiverse, its skeleton, what ensured the coherence of the whole.

_And that this structure could be altered__. _

That discovery was more than worth Raksada's perilous missions in Daedra Prince Hermaeus Mora's realm, Apocrypha, to search through the Forbidden Knowledge, more than worth his ceaseless travels to gather as much metal as possible and, above all, more than worth all the humiliations he had to suffer both manipulating and serving Sha'ka…

The mention of the name of Raksada's hatred lord in Elsweyr brought his thoughts back to his personal room in the Kraal, to one shelf in particular on which was resting a little doll made out of rags, mud, wax and wood, and carefully stuffed with needles. _Bone needles_, carefully engraved with mystical symbols.

Raksada loved needles so much. He could not say why. Probably because they had those deliciously playful qualities, especially when driven under nails, into tender skin or _into Sha'ka's Foodoo doll_…

Funny, the fact the most well-known, if not_ popular,_ aspect of Foodoo – the Foodoo doll – was also the most complicated and the most energy-consuming spells of all the range offered by the Old Art… The smart alecks who thought a Foodoo doll only consisted in pinning needles around became disillusioned very quickly, as even a talented_ bokor_ as Raksada could not hope to control more than one at once.

Nevertheless, the functioning principle was of a disconcerting simplicity. It was based on the statement that living creatures, thanks to the aura emanating from their Mana, left some kind of mark, of impression on the inert object of their environment and that the impression left stayed durably on the thing concerned.

To put it bluntly, objects could remember people. The pavement remembered the crowd trampling on it every day, the clothes – _the jewellery_ – remembered those who wore them, the weapons remembered those who manipulated them and so on.

Of course, the "memory" of the object often very unclear and a long and regular contact was necessary between it and the person for the impression to be durable.

Still, it was on this principle that the Foodoo doll worked. It got "soaked" by a person's Mana, which in return granted the owner of the doll control to the victim's thoughts, feelings – _and mind_. And if the necklace was not a proper Foodoo doll and thus not a "key" to the owner of the necklace's mind, it was nevertheless impregnated with his or her thoughts, ready to be read…

This was precisely what Raksada was interested in. With a little boost from the orichalcum of the altar on which the necklace was resting, it should be piece of cake.

The Dunmer was now ready. The ritual could start. So, he took a last deep breath and…

"Melee meep!"

"_What_?!" Raksada barked, turning toward the small pile of his clothes he had put into a corner of the room.

"Melee meep!" came the little merry sound again.

Cursing under his breath, Raksada quickly found himself ruffling through his clothes in a concert of extremely annoying "melee meep!", until he retrieved a small circular object strongly looking like a powder compact.

"I thought I put you on vibrate!" the Dunmer grouched as he opened the tiny box. A little mirror materialised in front of him, and his Reflection shot him a bright smile.

"_You obviously did not."_ it answered happily. _"Sorry to bother you, but you said you wanted to be informed of Hassildor and Vanin's return."_

"Yes?"

As an answer, the Reflection eyed Raksada critically and winced in disapproval. _"Would you mind explaining me what you are doing in such an outfit, young man? I can't leave you a minute, can I? I just turn my back for five minutes and you end up looking like a walking mess..."_

"What about the vampire and the mage?" the Dunmer barked.

"_Oh, they just came back to the Kraal from their trip in the city – I saw them in the mirror positioned in the main hall."_

Raksada frowned. "So? Did you notice anything weird?"

"_Well, apart from that __strange hat and that skin goat Vanin bought as souvenirs…"_ The Reflection looked thoughtful then shrugged_. "No, nothing, really."_

The Dunmer rolled his eyes. "Well, thank you very much for that _helpful_ piece of information. And now, you will be kind enough not to disturb me again? I'm busy."

Without waiting for an answer, Raksada closed the powder compact sharply and threw it back into his clothes – but not before putting it back on vibrate.

"Stupid magical device…" he grumbled as he came back in front of the Altar. A present from his Duchess, to, as she said "stay in contact". _"Yes, 'contact' – my sexy bum!_ _That paranoid nutcase just wants keep an eye on me." _He thought. _"But don't worry dear Duchess. If I feel like betraying you one day, it is not a magical powder compact which will save your pretty neck…"_

For the second time, Raksada closed his eyes and took a series of deep breathes to empty his mind. Once at peace again, he focused all his energy on the later and prepared himself to start the ritual...

"_Ade douwi, Iwas_, give me the power, I conjure ye, to see the truth of all things, both bodily and ghostly, in this world and the others."

The Dunmer's eyes opened as the incantation resonated sinisterly among the walls. Nothing special happened first, but a few seconds after his voice died, the gleam of the veins of orichalcum decreased before increasing again, slowly and pulsating to the rhythm of the sound of far away drums…

"_Ade douwi_…"

As he repeated the charm for the second time, Raksada started to give a hint of dancing steps, apparently without any coherence, as if he was brushing the ground with the sole of his feet. In the background, the drums increased dramatically.

"… I conjure you…"

For the third time, the incantation was pronounced. The sound of the drums was now ear-splitting and was making every stone of the walls vibrating in rhythm, the latter getting gradually quicker and quicker. As for the Dark Elf, his slow hesitant and slow dancing steps had given way to some violent convulsions which were shaking his whole body.

His eyes, however, remained calmed, focused and, whatever the contortions making while he was dancing, riveted on the necklace still standing on the altar and one which little green sparks were running now.

"… _in this world and the others!_" Raksada yelled at the top of his voice, stopping his dance abruptly, his hands raised toward the ceiling.

The drums ceased at once and relative silence felt again in the room.

Relative silence only. Because Raksada was not alone anymore…

The walls and their glowing motives of orichalcum had disappeared, covered by deep shadows studded with numerous colourful dots – small dots which soon proved to be eyes. Hundreds of pairs of eyes, scrutinizing Raksada curiously, while the sound of breaths rose in the air saturated by the smell of stagnant water.

_The smell of swamps…_

Suddenly, the eyes narrowed and became red, while the soft breathes united into a low hiss which quickly turned into an enrage yell when they recognised…_him_.

"You missed me, didn't you?" The Dunmer said in a hearty voice to the company at large.

As with the violent wind, the darkness spangled itself with green sparkles and rushed at Raksada, launching both physical and mental attacks at him, but unlike the other night, the Dunmer was ready this time to deal with it.

Uniting all his will, barricading his mind, he erected a mental and physical barrier between and the enraged Wind of the Swamps, carefully keeping it at a safe distance while actually channelling the power emanating from its fury.

A sardonic smile played on Raksada's lips as he heard the Wind yelling in frustration when it realised it was not able to reach him and that it was feeding his magical abilities. But it was too late to withdraw – Raksada's will was preventing it from doing so, and soon the power of Foodoo started to run along his body.

Ah, _power_…

Stupid, dim-witted Khajiits! Depriving themselves from the fantastic source of power Foodoo was, just because it had gone wrong centuries before with the very first practitioners... Morons. Raksada was craftier then they were. Actually, he was craftier than anyone else – except his own Master. _Maybe_…

While the Wind continued to contort itself in rage around him, Raksada walked toward the altar and took the necklace in his hand, letting himself 'look' deep into its emotional content.

And what he saw struck him in so much awe, he first thought he had abused Skooma, before a truly wicked grin spread across his features.

The Dunmer was still laughing in delight when he got out of the Ultimate Resonator to send his message.

7777777777777777

"So, what you see there, on your left behind that mountain, is Valenwood." J'Ghasta explained, gesturing toward a mountain, which to Lucien did not look much different from the other mountains surrounding them.

"Amazing."

A bit of vapour formed in front of Lucien's mouth as he spoke. Here, on the high plateau longing the frontier between Elsweyr and Valenwood, the temperature was slightly lower than in the plains and the vegetation far less luxuriant. Not that the Imperial minded, actually. He had had enough of tropical jungles and their swarms of mosquitoes.

"And right in front of us, you have a wonderful view of the Great Rift Valley," J'Ghasta continued, "which as you know, stretches from the south west of Elsweyr to Leyawiin, cutting the country into the dry north and the fertile south..." The Khajiit stopped and sighed. "Oh Lucien, look! There is a buffalo in blue underwear running along the edge!"

"Interesting." The Imperial replied. He frowned and finally moved his eyes from the arrow he was nonchalantly examining as he walked to the face J'Ghasta's disapproving look. "Sorry, what did you say again…?"

J'Ghasta gave a disheartened wave of his paw. "Ah, bah, nothing important." His eyes lowered on the arrow Lucien was still holding in his hand. "Happy with your bow, aren't you?"

"Satisfied, yes." The Imperial's lips stretched in a smirk. "The guy in the village we stopped by seemed to know his business, but I really would like to test it a bit more…"

"Craaacker!" came a cry from above their head. High above their heads, Polly the parrot was circling in the sky. Even if she was, by nature, a bird more used to humid and tropical type of weather, she seemed to enjoy a lot the harsh climate of the high plateau, which resulted in her annoying J'Ghasta and consuming peanuts twice as fast as usual.

"And why don't you try to shoot that stupid bird?" J'Ghasta asked with a hopeful smile on his face. "I swear that if she tries to perch on my head again, I will eat her, stuffed with her own darn peanuts!"

"No. I like her," a nasty gleam flashed in Lucien's eyes, "and I feel like shooting _bigger_ prey…"

At the words, J'Ghasta looked over his shoulder. Several feet behind them Mudli, Ya'Tirrje's Master Assassin, and also Fog Marley with eight well armed guards from the Gold Cat's personal security service were drawing closer.

The dark furred Khajiit had managed to create a kind of buffer between himself and the two assassins, a distance cunningly calculated to allow him to both prevent a sudden attack while at the same time being able to keep an eye – and an ear – on his "guests".

"What would not I give to be able to shoot him right between the eyes..." Lucien said between gritted teeth as J'Ghasta looked back at him. "I could do it, too."

"Oh, come on, he's such a lovely guy." J'Ghasta sniggered. "You just say that because he keeps insulting you in very imaginative ways."

"I'm serious, J'Ghasta. It's been _days _since I've been able to kill someone – _anyone_. It's getting on my nerves." Lucien clenched his teeth and the muscles on his lower jaw bulged. "And if he calls me 'hairless banana-eater' one more time, I swear – that's it – he'll spend the last minutes of his pathetic life wallowing in his own guts."

"There are _nine_ of _them_, Lucien …" the Khajiit replied in a resigned tone. Lucien had never learned to count like a normal person. To the Imperial nine on one were supposedly 'fair' odds. "Even for talented guys like us, that's suicide. Eight highly trained soldiers and a half plus a master assassin…"

Lucien frowned. "Eight and a _half_? Now how can't count? How do you get half a person?" Lucien's dark eyebrows knit together.

"Fog Marley." J'Ghasta explained.

The Imperial sniffed dismissively. J'Ghasta was _clearly _overestimating Fog's ability to do anything but guzzle Skooma and throw parties. "We defeated more than that…Do you remember Scaffold Manor?" He asked, elbowing J'Ghasta.

J'Ghasta coughed to hide his grin. Good times. "Well, let me first remind you that the Scaffold Manor mission was _far_ from being a success, and second, when we usually defeat enemies with numerical superiority, it is because we have the element of surprise working for us." The Khajiit winced. "In _this _case, the only surprise is working out the creative ways those brutes can put us to death for trying to kill them, or trying to give them the slip. And now we'd better shut up before they get too curious about the sweet nothings we're whispering in each other's ears…"

Lucien gave an indifferent shrug while inwardly acknowledging to J'Ghasta's words. Reason was indeed telling him he would have to wait a little bit more to enjoy ripping Mudli's body apart, so he tried to forget about his frustration by remembering their trip so far.

They left Senchal the day before, taking a boat to bypass the immense Forest of Tenmar. Truly, Lucien had not been really overenthusiastic about taking a boat again, after his catastrophic cruise from the Imperial City to Senchal, but he eventually came to the reasonable conclusion it could not be worse than getting through that humid, swarming and chaotic vegetal mass Khajiits dared to call a forest.

After a half a day and a night at sea, the boat had finally dropped the little troop on the southern coats, in small village at the limit of the frontier with Valenwood. They had made the rest of the way by foot, and now, according to J'Ghasta, they were only a few of kilometres away from Torval.

Tomorrow, for better or worse, they would be in the city for Sha'ka's coronation.

"_Certainly for the worst…" _Lucien thought gloomily.

To think he had been so proud of the nasty trick he had played on the Gold Cat…Now, he wondered if he had not committed a grand mistake, because finding himself in the middle of nowhere in the company of a bunch of thugs who did not wish him any good at all was not the most brilliant situation he ever gotten into – without forgetting that Sha'ka would certainly not give them the warmest welcome.

Lucien sighed heavily. Maybe he should have accepted Ya'Tirrje's "invitation" to stay as a hostage in Senchal…?

Then he remembered S'Baad, the Khajiit who ended up as an appetizers for the Gold Cat's repugnant pets. Finally, his little walk in the Great Valley Rift was not that terrible, compared to staying in Senchal and ending up having a – _ah_ – "S'Baad" day…

A scream in his back took him out of his daydreaming and made him froze where he stood.

"_Stop!" _

"Hey, are you crazy to yell like that? I almost had a heart attack!" J'Ghasta asked angrily, turning around to face Mudli. "_What's wrong_?"

"Nothing." Mudli replied. "But from here, we have to get down the gorge." he added, pointing at a steep slope on his left getting down a small canyon they had been following for hours. The gorge was so deep Lucien could not see its bottom.

J'Ghasta frowned. "The way by the crests and Sani Pass is much shorter."

"There was a landslide, the pass is still blocked." Mudli explained. "So, if we want to reach Torval from here, it will be via the Antelope Canyon." His eyes narrowed and his hand closed over the hilt of the sabre he was wearing shoved through his belt. "Anyway, I don't even know why I try to justify myself. I am the leader of this expedition and I say we get down the canyon. Period."

A shadow passed on J'Ghasta's face as he glared at the narrow ravine, and Lucien knew it was not so much because his friend had to take order from Mudli than because he was morbidly afraid of narrow spaces – like the Antelope Canyon, for example…. "Tell me, it would have killed you to tell us we will have to pass through Antelope Canyon?" The Khajiit growled.

"Why would have told you? It is a simple gorge." The tone of Mudli's voice became dangerously low. "There is a problem…?"

"No, nothing, it is fine." Lucien replied, grabbing J'Ghasta by the arm and leading him in the canyon. "Let's go."

"I don't want to…" The Khajiit whined as he and Lucien took the lead to get down the slope.

"Come on, J'Ghasta." Lucien whispered as his friend clutched his arm with both paws nervously. "It's not like it's a _little_ canyon full of nasty surprises. You've done much worst. Remember the latrines in the Imperial City…?"

A whimper and J'Ghasta's claws driving in his biceps was the only reply he got. Lucien was wondering in what state his arm would be when they finally got out of the darn canyon…

Fortunately, and surprisingly enough, the more they progressed, the larger the gorge got, until finally, it was almost fifty meters large, allowing them to see the sky. This definitely had a relaxing effect on J'Ghasta, and Lucien got his arm back in one piece.

Nevertheless, as they continue their progression, the Imperial could not help noticing that, here and there, the sheer cliffs gave way to slopes like the one they used to get down the canyon. He looked back. Mudli was not far from them, an obvious smirk playing on his scarified face.

Being a childhood acquaintance of J'Ghasta, Lucien was ready to bet the Master Assassin knew about his claustrophobia, and had decided to have a little at fun at J'Ghasta's expense…

"_Oh, this was how it was hey?_ _He who laughs last laughs best."_ Lucien thought, smirking inwardly as he reported his attention on the high cliffs surrounding them.

In terms of monotonous landscape, they could not be beaten – except by deserts maybe... But the dullness was broken by a move which attracted Lucien's attention.

"J'Ghasta?" Lucien asked, frowning.

"Yeah?" the Khajiit grumbled.

"What are those animals pacing over there?" The Imperial pointed at the creatures on the edge of the canyon. They were a mix of slender silhouettes and more bulky ones, standing out on the blue sky as well as their long, incurving horns.

"Oh, those? The big ones are wildebeest, the others are summerboks." He smiled. "As you know, the latter are the symbol of Elsweyr – not as classy as the Imperial Dragon of Cyrodiil I admit, but summerboks are certainly tastier than dragon's scaly meat."

Lucien had an amused smile. "You know what you are talking about, don't you?"

J'Ghasta licked his chops. "Man, there is nothing better than a summerbok's leg roasted on a spit…"

"_Man…_" Lucien said, rolling his eyes. "You're starting to sound like Fog. You didn't bring any of that Skooma _with_ you, did you?"

"Even if I wanted to borrow some, I am not sure he'd agree. He's already worried he didn't bring enough for _this _trip. Nah, I don't think he'll be in a sharing mood," J'Ghasta sighed. "Oh well."

Lucien scratched his head. "Hang on…I thought all you had to do in Elsweyr was to look around to find Skooma…and you are telling me Frog is terrified of _shortage_?"

The Khajiit's chops curled up in a grin. "You see, our dear future Incosi _Sha'ka_," J'Ghasta literally spat the word here, "is very keen in encouraging the production and exportation of Moon Sugar to intoxicate the other provinces. He's also, I understand, much more reluctant to see his fellow Khajiits consuming it in too great a quantity – junkies make very bad soldiers, especially when they're all busy talking to trees and running running around in circles, screaming they're being chased by cannibal cookies…"

"Ah…" That was all Lucien found to answer, and they continued to walk for a while in silence before another scream of "_stop_!" resonated in the canyon.

Mudli had decided it was time to take a rest, an idea welcomed by everyone – Lucien included, who had an urgent matter to deal with…

"Hey, where are you going?" The voice of the dark Khajiit rose in his back as Lucien was moving away from the little group. "You should stay with us – it can be dangerous around…"

Despite himself, Lucien felt his hand moving slowly toward his dagger. But he called upon all the discipline he had acquired over his time in the Dark Brotherhood and, instead of stuffing the Khajiit with arrows before slitting his throat, he gave his brightest and friendliest smile.

"I gotta go. Thanks for your concern." He added in a sweet voice, while his smile widened to turn into a large grin. "Relax, you can come with me and hold _it_ for me while I'm pissing."

There was a stunned silence. But the extreme vulgarity of the words and the mental images they produce in the audience's minds finally paid off. Mudli looked like he had something stuck in his windpipe while the henchmen burst out laughing.

_Lucien one__ – Mudli zero._

Lucien turned away from them, a smirk on his face while he heard Mudli snapping at his men to shut up. He usually preferred more refined insults, but it felt good to be vulgar sometimes.

The Imperial walked a little farther, no more than a hundred meters from the rest of the group before he finally found a place suitable for what he had to do.

Partly concealed from the sight of his companion by a rock, he started to perform the "Ritual" adopted by all male bipeds in the Multiverse when they had to satisfy an urgent need.

_By Sithis, it was high time…_

Lucien had just started whistling happily that the sound of flapping wings interrupted him. Polly had just landed on a nearby rock and was observing the Imperial with a rather dumfounded expression.

"Crrrrrr." She said, leaning her head on one side as she looked at her master.

"So much for privacy." Lucien grumbled, frowning and looking away from the parrot. "Couldn't you land somewhere else? Like on J'Ghasta's head for example?"

The bird blinked, its eyes moving from Lucien's face down. The Imperial cursed himself as he felt blood irresistibly flushing toward his face. He could not believe it. He was _blushing _because a stupid parrot was looking at him while he was… "Seriously, I should have put a sign saying 'prohibited to perverted parrots'." he hissed to the bird. "You have something better to do, don't you?"

"Crrrraaacker?"

"Ah! A _brilliant_ idea, the pee pause, if I may say." A voice said in his back. "I would not have dreamt of a better way to get a little privacy far from the invading ears of our companions."

Lucien rolled his eyes. "All right all right, did I pick a spot on some sort of thoroughfare?" Lucien demanded. "You people..."

J'Ghasta's happy face popped up at his left. "Sorry, but I thought you said you needed help." the Khajiit replied, performing the Ritual as well. "And given Mudli declined your kind and generous offer…"

"J'Ghasta, you are the most _disgusting_ and _perverted_ being I have ever met!" Lucien spat. "I'm surprised Mudli let you join me… Isn't he afraid of us plotting to do him no good?"

"After you extremely crude sally, he was certainly not going to take the risk of looking like a complete fool, rather than just a half of one," J'Ghasta giggled before his face took a mocking serious air. "By the way, such kind of coarse remark is so unlike you. You used to have much more refinement…"

"Are you here to give me a lesson on propriety or do you have something else in mind?" Lucien interrupted him, teeth gritted.

"Oh, no, I just came to have a peeing contest with yo…all right! No need to take such a …maniac." J'Ghasta said when Lucien shot him a very dark look. "I just wanted to talk with you in private. Uh, literally speaking." The Khajiit looked down with a critical expression on his face "You can't pee straight anyway…"

"To the _point_, J'Ghasta." Lucien snarled.

J'Ghasta looked down again "Fine, no need to get angry – but you'd better moderate, this could take a while." He sighed. "Well, I guess you remember when Ya'Tirrje mentioned that Foodoo thing during our little get-together in his garden…"

"As if I could forget…" Lucien winced inwardly as series of pictures including tentacles, big bulging eyes and muddy water flashed in his mind. But mainly _tentacles_. The more he thought about it, the closest he was coming to think he had developed a certain "tentacleophobia" – or whatever it may be called. Too bad, because he liked seafood…"Of course I do remember. And the 'Lion Men' bit as well…"

"We will just focus on Foodoo at the moment – the two are linked anyway." The Khajiit replied. "Well, what do you know about it?"

Lucien raised an eyebrow. "What am I supposed to know about it?"

The answer brought a shifty look on J'Ghasta's face. "Well, since you're not a Khajiit, _nothing at all_. Because it is a kind of secret you see. Foodoo is a very, very old religion, practised by early Khajiits during the Merethic Era but which got dropped at some point because it sort of…_backfired_."

"How can a religion _backfire_?" Asked a rather dumfounded Lucien. "Their gods got annoyed or something and killed them all in a rain of fire, some kind of flooding – or both?"

"No one knows exactly. Some kinds of 'unfortunate events' are mentioned in our oral tradition – no rain of fire or though and, in my opinion, they belong more to myths than history." The Khajiit stopped and sniffed as if he were the most educated, worldly creature alive. "Anyway – Foodoo was declared taboo in Elsweyr and thus, most of its traditions and knowledge slowly disappeared…You done?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Yes." Lucien grumbled in a concert of clicking noises made by the belt he was readjusting.

"Well, keep the pose then, because I am not. Er, where was I…?"

"Foodoo getting banned." Lucien started helpfully.

"Ah, yes." The Khajiit smirked. "Well, despite the efforts of the authorities to annihilate the Foodoo cult, it had already impregnated our culture too much, and you know how it works. The more you prohibit something, the more people are interested into it – the show of the other night proves that there are still a handful of wackos crazy enough to meddle with the cult despite the taboo. In Tenmar at least…"

"But I thought _you_ said Foodoo was crap." Lucien started. "So, you believe in it finally?"

A very contrite expression appeared on J'Ghasta's face. "What I believe or not is not _relevant_. It is what _others_ may believe that matters." He mumbled.

"And your point is…?" Lucien pressed on. He had known the Khajiit long enough to know when he was beating around the bush.

"Well…There is an aspect of Foodoo in which people documented enough on the subject believe extremely hard and which, I think, is the reason for…Trencavel's presence in Elsweyr." J'Ghasta whispered reluctantly.

There was a pause and a flapping of wings as Polly left her rock to perch on Lucien's shoulder.

"What?!" The latter finally exclaimed. "And it is only _now_ you tell me about it!" It was the first time in what felt like a long time he'd actually thought about Trencavel, and he was forcibly reminded how much he _hated that woman_! Of course, he also imagined her on a similar nightmarish trip, such as he'd endured so far, and his hackles began to settle.

"I didn't say anything before because I didn't think of it before, that's all." J'Ghasta protested. "It's pure coincidence! The phenomenon we saw the other night and that Ya'Tirrje attributed to Foodoo reminded me of…"

"And what is that aspect of Foodoo Trencavel may be interested in?" Lucien cut in.

J'Ghasta chewed his lower lip, apparently choosing his words with great care, like he always did when he "Foodoo is mainly about manipulating Mana, and was renowned to be very efficient at it, to the point of being able to er…" J'Ghasta hesitated, "… resurrecting the dead."

In a heavy silence, slowly, very slowly, Lucien's eyes widened as the implications of the revelation sunk in. "You mean…"

"Aye." The Khajiit replied, nodding sadly as he closed his pants while remaining careful about keeping "the pose".

"Oh no… Please, no… Don't tell me she is trying to bring Septim back from the dead…" Lucien begged. It was sick, and wrong, and made his skin crawl.

"I am afraid she is – and Vicente as well, I guess."

"She has lost her marbles?!"

"As far as the Trencavel family is concerned, I have always wondered if its members had any marbles to lose to begin with – because you will admit Rivanone was not very stable either, but in a more "can-do" attitude than her grand-daughter…" J'Ghasta smiled as Lucien gave him a nasty look. "In addition, it makes sense, doesn't it? Her sudden interest for the Dark Arts, all the time she spent at Scribonius'…"

"That old creepy nutcase of necromancer must have stuffed her head with this nonsense!" Lucien growled. "He...Wait until I get back to Cyrodiil! Powerful dark mage or not, I will feed him to his own Dark Chewers."

"Oh, I think she came up with the plan alone." J'Ghasta said with a little pout. "I can understand her, you know. She still feels extremely guilty for Vicente's death. And I guess she wanted her kid to grow up with a father." J'Ghasta shrugged.

Lucien was not listening. "The _best_ thing that whimpering moron of Septim did in his entire life was _die_!" Lucien barked. "I'm the one going to die if he comes _back_!" He passed a hand over his face and it is in a much calmer voice than he spoke again. "Tell me… Is this really possible? Can Foodoo bring back the dead to life?"

"I don't think so – but only a true Foodoo practitioner could answer you, and sadly, as I said, they are not many of them around..." J'Ghasta said, scratching his chin. "Of course, we could still ask to one of those shamans who meddle a bit into it, but only a mambo, a hougan or even a bokor – _especially _a bokor actually – could help us on the matter. And the last ones must be hiding in the rotten vegetation of Tenmar."

"Bringing back the dead…" Lucien said in a dreamy voice, before having a sad chuckle. "The true nightmare of every self-respecting assassin…"

"And certainly not very well tolerated by the Dread Father either – though I would not complain about seeing old Vicente again. Nor would you, I guess…" J'Ghasta observed with a smile.

"I think Sithis is the last thing Trencavel worries about." Lucien commented darkly, deliberately ignoring the remark on Vicente. "But how come you know so much about an art supposed to be extremely secretive?"

"Oh, this is just general culture…"

Lucien raised an eyebrow. "General culture about an art supposed to have disappeared centuries ago?"

"Every Khajiit has a minimum knowledge of it – as I said, it is part of our collective memory." J'Ghasta made a little dismissive move with his paw. "Anyway, we'd better take our leave, because if a five-minute pee pause is fine for girls, it looks much shiftier in the case of guys – and I don't want our companions to come up with _wrong_ ideas, you know…"

"Well, they're not dumb, and certainly understood we wanted a little word away from them…"

J'Ghasta beamed and tapped Lucien affectingly on the cheek before he took his leave toward the camp. "My adorable, innocent and pure Lulu… This was _absolutely not_ what I had in mind when I was talking about 'wrong ideas'."

Lucien glared blankly at J'Ghasta's back while rubbing his cheek before breaking into a run after him. "Hey! Wait a minute. What did you mean then by …?"

But, fortunately for him, J'Ghasta never got the opportunity to reply.

This is the moment a strange sound chose to resound behind them. It was like a silky material being torn apart by very sharp claws. Like _dziing_ and simultaneously, Polly rose in the air, uttering hysterical "aleeerrrrt!" screams as she flew around their heads.

As one man, J'Ghasta and Lucien respectively drew out their claw/dagger out and turned back to face…

"Oh no…" J'Ghasta moaned. "Don't tell me it's…"

"…an interdimentional gate." Lucien replied in a tone with a little note of hysteria as he watched the circular and luminous object floating in the air. "These things seem to have developed a certain…affection toward us." All the while his thoughts circled 'Trencavel...this is _your fault_!'

"Affection not shared." J'Ghasta hissed. "Let's go warn the others." He ordered, setting off into a trot toward the bivouac, quickly imitated by Lucien.

"Ah, here you are!" Mudli exclaimed as he saw the two assassins running toward him as if they had the whole of Oblivion on their heels. "We were starting to wonder if you were not doing something else than peeing – aaaargh!" he yelled when Polly screamed "Aleeeeeeeeeerrrrrt!" in right his ears.

"No time for jibes, Mudli!" J'Ghasta exclaimed, grabbing a disoriented by the noise Mudli by the arm '. "We need to leave, quick! An interdimentional portal…"

He did not finish his sentence. There was a terrible creaking noise, like thunder but a hundred times more powerful, and the sky suddenly darkened.

_Dziingdziing__dziingdziingdziingdziingdziingdziing…_

With an unbelievable speed, the magical portals spread in the landscape like wildfire. There were so many of them that the light emanating from them was almost too painful to look at.

"… just opened over there." J'Ghasta ended in a tiny voice, looking with eyes like saucers at the show. "This _really _sucks…"

All the guards had jumped to their feet, whispering in fear, and Fog Marley was clutching his tricolour woollen beret nervously.

"Oh no…" he whined. "Don't tell me it is going to happen _again_…!"

Lucien and J'Ghasta exchanged a quick puzzled look.

"What do you mean by _again_?" J'Ghasta demanded.

"We already had such kind of… problems." Mudli replied instead of Fog. "It has been a while now since such kind of phenomenon had been happening on a regular basis in the region of Senchal. But I have been told it happened in other parts of Elsweyr as well."

"And at sea…" Lucien said under his breath, shooting nervous glances around him. "What do you do to deal with it?"

"Nothing much." Mudli replied with a sad laugh. "Our shamans say it is magical and that we can't do anything against it. So, most of the time, we simply wait for it to end – and just make sure to kill anything coming out of the gates…" He added, gulping as he glared at the closest portal.

"And does much stuff cross those interdimentional doors, usually?" J'Ghasta asked in a careful tone as Mudli barked orders to his soldiers, telling them to pack as much as possible quickly.

"No. I guess the inhabitants of the other planes are as scared as we are." The Master Assassin replied, turning back toward him. "But when something does, it isn't worth it, believe me… The last thing we got looked like a big tarantula, so hairy Fog could have taught it to make dreadlocks..." he said darkly. "It took us a while to take it down and we were more than twelve – but I have no intention to stick around to see what is what it is this time. …"

"_Watch out!"_ A soldier suddenly yelled.

They just had the time to jump away when the corpse of a wildebeest crashed right in the middle of their little bivouac.

"What the…!" Mudli yelled, before jumping aside when a second corpse – the one of a summerbok this time – tumbled down the cliff in an awful sound of broken bones and smashed flesh.

"The animals! They're panicking!" screamed a second soldier, pointing at the edge of the cliff.

All heads looked up in a harmonious all to see hundred of animals, braying of terror as more doors were materialising, running along the edge in the direction from which their little troop came from.

"Dear Fadomai, they are going to rush down the canyon…" Fog moaned, now chewing his beret out of panic. "We're dead."

Lucien frowned. "What…?"

"The way up there is a dead end!" Mudli spat, his voice now quavering a bit in fear as well now. "The herd will have no choice but to get down the canyon. They are going to trample us to death!"

"Look out!"

This time, it was not a corpse but a dozen which fell down the cliff. The travellers managed to avoid most of them – except one. The wildebeest's broken carcass bumped on a rock and caught one of the soldier, the latter uttering a terrified scream when the cadaver crashed over him.

"We can't stay here!" J'Ghasta exclaimed. "Let's run on the other side of the canyon! If we climb along the other cliff, we may have a chance!"

He did not need to repeat himself twice. Everybody rushed to the other side of the gorge, abandoning everything behind them.

Everyone, except…

"Fog! Move your ass!" J'Ghasta yelled to the Rastajiit who was trying to stuff his pants with as many Skooma bottles as he could.

"I can't leave my Skooma here – argh!" Fog yelled when, swearing out loudly extremely bad insults about his mother, J'Ghasta grabbed him and threw him, yelling and kicking, over his shoulder before breaking into a run with Lucien.

"Move faster!" the Imperial exclaimed, glaring with a worried expression at a cloud of dust rising at the other end of the canyon.

J'Ghasta gave his friend a full-teeth smile. "The last one on the cliff is a moron!" He exclaimed, speeding up and overtaking Lucien.

"You can't be serious five minutes, can you?!" Lucien barked into his back, increasing his speed as well. The herd was still an indistinct could of dust, but the ground was starting to vibrate under his feet…

Lucien finally arrived at the bottom of the cliff, on which the rest of the group was already climbing. J'Ghasta had caught up as well, and was now climbing at the front, trying to reach a little overhang – quite an achievement given he had to overpower a hysterical Fog as well…

"My Skooma!" the latter yelled, writhing and twisting helplessly.

"Fog, you stupid junkie! Calm down or you are going to make us both fall!"

"I don't care!" The Rastajiit's scream ended up in a pathetic sob. "My Skooma! I want my Skoomaaaaaaaaa!"

Lucien rolled his eyes. Why J'Ghasta was embarrassing himself with such a waste was beyond his comprehension, so he did not waste any more time pondering the subject, and started to climb as well. The wall was not posing any problems to a skilled assassin such as he was, and he quickly caught up with and overtook the two last guards.

He was looking for a good hold with his left hand when something grabbed his wrist.

"Need some help, banana-eater?" Said a voice dripping with condescension.

Lucien looked up and his eyes widened in fear.

_Mudli…_

The Khajiit was holding him, smiling, but his dark eyes were telling another story – a story which end was certainly not going to please Lucien much.

"Do you still want me to hold something for you, _Lucien_…?" the Master Assassin hissed.

Lucien groaned in pain when the Khajiit drove his claws deeply in his wrist. He looked quickly around him. No one was paying attention to them – J'Ghasta was still busy with Fog. As for the other soldiers, they were too busy saving their own lives and would certainly not intervene in his favour anyway. "Stop that!"

Mudli's face radiated with evil glee. "Oh, but of course." He said with a cruel nasty smile as he let Lucien's hand go, doing his best to move him away from the walls as he did so.

Yelling in rage and fear, Lucien tried desperately to grip back the rocks, and blessed his reflexes when he managed to do it at the last minute, despite his left hand made sticky with blood.

Sadly, Mudli was not decided to leave it at that.

As if in slow motion and as he tried to tighten his grip, Lucien saw the Khajiit's foot getting closer and closer to his face, before his heel hit him hard on his lower lip.

A metallic taste in his mouth indicated him the latter had opened under the shock while colourful stars exploded before his eyes, partially blinding him. It was probably not a bad thing, because as such, he could not see the ground coming closer…

There was a violent shock, but strangely enough not as hard as Lucien had imagined it. And the ground actually yelled when he hit it – since when did the ground _yell_?

The Imperial's confusion increased when there was second commotion and another yell. Then he felt himself hitting a hard surface several times, before he found himself, his arms stretched out to the sides and looking at the blue sky whereas the floor vibration shook his body.

Groaning in pain, he managed to get up on shaky legs. Not far from him, the two soldiers he had carried along with him in his fall did the same. And screamed in terror.

The panicked animals were just now twenty meters from them…No, ten… No…

Lucien closed his eyes and covered his head with his arms in a silly reflex of protection as the sharp horns got closer…

"Gotcha!"

Without knowing what exactly happened, Lucien found himself hauled from the ground while a fireball passed by his head, followed by a resonant _boom _as it hit the ground. The Imperial's mouth opened in a scream of surprise as he felt himself pushed into the narrow but deep hole formed by the explosion, while something heavy and fluffy piled up on him.

And then, there was nothing else than darkness and a terrible rumbling noise, which finally died away, until all that was left was silence as dust gently settled back on the ground.

"You know Lucien," said a voice in between two coughs, "I think I have _never_ been as scared in my whole life." There was a thoughtful pause. "Except maybe that time when Arquen showed up at a meeting without her make-up…" **(1) **

"Instead of saying stupid stuff, I'd appreciate if you'd move your elbow from sensitive parts of my anatomy…" a second voice replied, growling.

"Oh. Sorry." A nervous chuckle.

A dusty paw hit the ground, quickly followed by the rest of an equally dusty and coughing J'Ghasta. He stood up on shaky legs and dusted his arms and shoulders before he looked back inside the hole, beaming.

"How many chances do you think there were for us to survive that, hey? A million to one?"

Like the paw a little earlier, a hand reached out of the hole, quickly followed by another one as Lucien hauled half of himself of it, lying on the stomach before looking up and shooting the Khajiit a sideways look. He was covered in dust as well, while his hurt lips continued to bleed, covering his chin with blood.

"A million to one." he muttered, grabbing the hand J'Ghasta was offering him and getting to his feet. "Something like that, yeah…"

"Crrrrr!" Literally falling from the sky, Polly flew a few times around Lucien's head, uttering little happy screams before landing on his shoulder.

"Looking for peanuts, hey?" Lucien said to the parrot. "Without J'Ghasta's intervention, you would probably have found yourself deprived of them for a while…" The Imperial stopped and glared at his Khajiiti friend thoughtfully. "You know, if I had a Septim every time you saved my life, I would have…" Lucien made a pout as he made a quick mental calculus. "… two septims and a half."

J'Ghasta looked offended. "Two septims and half _only_?"

"For obvious reasons, I am not counting the times when you deliberately _put_ me in danger before saving me…" Lucien replied curtly, wiping his bloody lip on the back of his hand.

The Khajiit giggled and gave a good and happy slap in Lucien back, making the latter wincing. "Hey – are you all right?"

"A bit shaken – but nothing beyond the reach of a minor healing spell..."

"Good!" J'Ghasta's eyes narrowed suddenly. "What happened?"

"Mudli." Lucien replied laconically. "And how did you realised I fell? I was far under you and with all the tumult and Fog…"

"It is your stupid bird." J'Ghasta grumbled as he glared at Polly who shot him back an innocent look. "She came screaming 'craaacker' in my ears…"

"I guess that means extra peanuts…" Lucien replied, smiling as he scratched Polly under the beak and, for a tiny, little fraction of a second, he thought the bird winked at him…

"Mudli is certainly going to be very disappointed." J'Ghasta said with a smile as he watched the Master Assassins and what was left of his men getting down the cliff. "His attempt at eliminating you failed – thanks to my awesome self – and he lost two soldiers in the process…"

"Don't rejoice just yet …" Lucien warned. "The hostilities have just started…"

And nothing was guaranteeing them they would escape victorious.

7777777777777777

In the Temple of Corinth, and more precisely in the apartments of First Watcher Bhekisisa, the atmosphere was to contemplation. Or at least, an_ attempt_ at contemplation, because there had been quite a lot of commotion behind his door for the last five minutes.

Groaning in annoyance, the old Khajiit laboriously got up from before the altar he was praying at, wincing as his arthritis put him in agony.

"Will you stop fooling around!?" He exclaimed, opening his door violently to discover two young oblates arguing. The younger Khajiits gave a jump at the angry expression on the old Khajiit's face. "Can't one meditate in peace around here?!"

"We are very sorry, O Bhekisisa," said the older of the two young priests, giving his companion a dark look. "We did not want to interrupt your contempla…"

"What do you want?" the First Watcher demanded curtly. He was definitely in a bad mood. The vanilla custard tart he had for lunch was certainly not very fresh and stayed on his stomach, and with all the work he had, he had not been able to find five minutes for his midday nap.

"We received a message from Torval. _He_ is coming." The second oblate replied, gulping.

Bhekisisa's lips tightened at the words. He did not need to ask who the "he" in question was, the look on the young Khajiits' face was eloquent enough.

"When? What does he want?" Bhekisisa demanded.

For all answer, the first oblate opened his hand. There was a tiny ball standing on the palm, but a ball looking like it was made of whirling and sparkling smoke…

"It… looked like a bird when it arrived." The young priest explained. "It landed right in the middle of the Council room."

"I know how it works." Bhekisisa replied, taking the ball from his hand. "It is not the first time _he _sent us a message."

As he said so, the First Watcher took a step backward and threw the little ball in the air.

There, the ball exploded and the smoke twisted itself for a few second before finally materialising into a mask of theatre with a sinister grimace.

And the contorted mask spoke.

And Bhekisisa did not like what he heard. At all.

**(1)** Thanks a lot to Alcyfis/Ijunzu for that one. :D


	16. Noodles, Black Pudding and Spider

**Chapter 15 –**** Noodles, Black Pudding and Spider of Doom**

**No comment on the title. I am REALLY not inspired… XD**

**Many MANY thanks to Raven Studio, who did an absolutely wonderful job on editing this darn long chapter.  
**

**7777777777777777**

"_(…) The travels of Topal the Pilot, the Aldmer Adventurer, have been largely documented. Thus, the purpose of this chapter is not to develop them further._

_Nevertheless, much less __has been said about the small colonies he and his travelling companions spread in the places they visited._

_Most of those colonies thrived __for a time before going downhill, but the case of the one which developed in the south of Elsweyr, in the Tenmar Forest, is particularly fascinating as it is has shaped the cultural background of the country and is still influencing it somehow. (…)"_

David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr", on the Lion Men.

**7777777777777777**

"More noodles?"

Sigrid shot a blank look at the half-full bowl, then sighed and shook her head. "No, thank you. If I eat one more, I think I may explode."

"Ah."

The young woman behind the bar – a Nord, by the look of her – appeared contrite, but her face brightened up when they fell upon a little silhouette standing near the counter, head first in a bowl and slurping its content noisily. "What about your toad? I am sure he'd like some more."

Sigrid shot an annoyed look at the creature. "Oh, I'm sure he would too," she pointed out dryly, "_despite the fact he has guzzled down a dozen bowls already_." Her purse was not, she contained to glower, empty. Her measure of sympathy for the toad's plight however, had hit rock bottom around the ninth bowl. He could have avoided all this trouble (and saved her buying all these noodles) if he had just left well enough alone.

Sigrid was still not sure why she decided on the little noodle shop. Probably she needed a little tonic after her discovery about U'bhuti's real identity, and its certainly sinister implications. Mostly because, at the time, she was starving.

Anyway, she did not have to complain about her choice. The food was good, though mainly consisting of noodles, the seat on which she hunched was comfortable enough to ease her back pain, and even the baby had finally stopped his kicking. All in all, everything was reasonably good. Far better than wandering around Corinth looking for Ashar and her two companions.

"Your little creature is darn funny." the waitress observed, pointing at Toad. "I've never seen a toad like this before."

"Never had I before bumping into it." Sigrid replied between gritted teeth. "And honestly, I could live without it," She finished acidly.

On the counter, Toad finally dragged himself laboriously out of the bowl, licking his face free of sauce, pointedly ignoring Sigrid while giving the waitress the toadish equivalent of "puppy eyes".

"Aaaaaaw, look at those cute, _bulging_ eyes!" The waitress exclaimed, patting Toad affectingly on the head. "All right, another bowl of noodles for the adorable toad!"

"Actually, I could with one too, Zarath."

The waitress, Toad and Sigrid turned toward the silhouette of a Khajiit leaning against the counter.

"The house doesn't take credit, Ba'haka. You can't run up a tab," the Nord replied, wiping her hands on her bright orange apron, bearing the inscription, 'Don't make me poison your food' and matching the rest of her equally bright orange outfit, making Sigrid feeling she was talking to an overgrown citrus fruit. "You haven't paid your bill in two weeks."

"Come on Zarath. For you ol' Khajiit pal…" The Khajiit named Ba'haka wheedled, fluttering his eyelashes in a supposed-to-be-sexy way.

The waitress looked Aetheriusward. "Fine – but if you don't pay by tomorrow, I'll feed you to my customers!"

Quick as lighting, Zarath drew the two big chopping knives – which looked more like scimitars to Sigrid – in one fluid movement and, kicking the counter with her knee, sending the ingredients jumping into the air.

With almost daedraesque dexterity and speed, she cut them in mid air, so they landed with amazing accuracy in the two bowls waiting in front of her. Sigrid squinted hard, trying to follow the waitress' movements, but failed, ending up with a headache.

The crazy ballet of blades stopped to the great relief of Sigrid's ocular muscles. Zarath put her blades back in their sheaths, turned toward a marmite in which stock and noodles boiled. She filled the bowls with the mixture before throwing them down in front of Toad and the Khajiit.

"Tadaaa!" the waitress exclaimed proudly.

"_Bravo_!" Sigrid exclaimed, genuinely impressed, Toad jumping up and down excitedly at her side. "I'm amazed every time you do that! Where did you learn that?"

"In Mournhold. I spent a while there."

"Oh, Morrowind, hey?" Sigrid frowned when an idea crossed her mind. "Speaking of that – can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead." the Nord replied, smiling as she watched Toad jump head first in his bowl of noodles.

"Well, it is about your name – 'Zarath'. Isn't it a Dunmer one?"

At the words, the eyes of the waitress narrowed and before Sigrid had the time to blink, Zarath had put her so close to Sigrid's, their noses almost touched.

"Yes." the Nord waitress hissed. "Is it a problem?"

Sigrid turned crimson. "Sorry, I just wondered, given you don't _exactly_ look like a Dark Elf…"

One of the big scimitar, usually reserved for caving up meat and vegetables embedded itself just in front of Sigrid. The latter took an instinctive step back, as Toad emitted a terrified croak.

"I have been asked that stupid question a million times, so, for a million and _one_ times, is. It. A. _Problem_?" Zarath, her lips turning up in a snarl, her strange light brown-orange eyes flashing, and for the first time, Sigrid noticed the long and very thin scar running from her forehead to her chin, passing over her left eye. "Do I ask you question about _your_ name?"

"_Amazing, that talent you have to __run afoul of jumpy weirdos…"_ Clairvoix announced in a pleasant tone in Sigrid's head.

"_This one arrives in the top trio of my top ten__, I admit."_ Sigrid replied, relieved when Zarath suddenly totally lost interest in her as a customer eating before the booth called for service. The Nord freed her blade from the counter and walked toward the customer, a menacing look on her face. "_I am glad I did not tell her hair looked all over the place. And reminds me not to introduce her to Ashar…" _

"_Very wise indeed."_

Now, the waitress had arrived near the poor Khajiiti client, towering over him – and given her height, "towering" was not an idle word.

"What's your problem, _bugger_?" the Nord growled.

The customer cowered, timidly pointing at the bowl in front of him. "Sorry, O Zarath, but I think my noodles need a little bit more salt…"

The remark was followed by a strange muted sound.

"Is it normal for her to beat up her clients?" Sigrid observed in a voice she tried to keep sounding nonchalant.

"Oh yes. Zarath uses 'corporal language' a lot to express herself." Ba'haka explained, still eating his noodles quietly with a pair of chopsticks.

"She's mastered both grammar and vocabulary." Sigrid winced as the enraged Nord tried to push the poor customer's chopsticks up his nose.

"I know she looks a bit weird, but she is a nice person to be around – _truly,_" he insisted when he caught Sigrid's unconvinced glance. "If only she could stop obsessing about Akaviri stuff." He waved with his chopsticks.

"I beg your pardon?"

Without looking backward, Ba'haka pointed over his shoulder with his thumb at Zarath. "Do you see her orange clothes?"

"Hard to miss them…"

The Khajiit sighed. "Well, she is fascinated about ninjas – you know, that special class of Akaviri spies and assassins. So, she read all those stupid books about them and now she is convinced their way of life mainly consists in dressing in orange and eating noodles all day." Ba'haka sighed again. "As you can see, she does her best to imitate them…"

Sigrid turned around. Zarath's altercation with the customer had turned into a general riot, everybody fighting with everybody else, or rather, Zarath fighting with everybody else while the rest tried not to fight her, or get in her way. Given the wholly nonchalant attitude of the guards, who were watching the scene from nearby, such incidents were apparently frequent. "Are random aggressiveness and violent behaviour part of… a _ninja's_ way of life as well?" Sigrid asked.

"Hmmm, no. I guess those are part of_ her_ way of life." Ba'haka responded, dexterously coiling noodle around his chopsticks before slurping them softly.

Sigrid frowned. "And why the _orange_ outfit? I would have expected something more… discreet for someone claiming to be a spy and an assassin."

"Don't ask."

The Breton and the Khajiit felt silent for a while, the latter examining the former carefully.

"What's your name?" Ba'haka finally enquired.

"Sig…" Sigrid bit her lip. "_Berthe_. Berthe Doe."

If Ba'haka was surprised by her name, he did not show it. "And what is a pregnant Breton doing here in Corinth, so far from High Rock's green lands?"

Sigrid had a sad smile. "If I tell you something as lame as 'trying to find guidance and peace', would it make sense?"

The Khajiit put his empty bowl back on the counter and wiped the back of his mouth with his forearm. "It would yes – most people are here for that, mind you."

"And do they succeed in their quest?"

"Depends on what the Oracle tells them. For my part, if I was looking for 'peace and guidance', I'd rather count on myself than on some crazy talking stone."

The conversation might have continued, but was interrupted when a body crashed on the roof of Zarath's tiny stall, getting through it and landing in the middle of the kitchen in a terrible sound of saucepans and broken bowls.

"What the Oblivion…!?" Ba'haka exclaimed, getting up to get behind the counter, imitated by Sigrid.

In the remnants, they found the moaning body of Khajiit twisting in pain.

"Are you all right?" demanded Ba'haka. "What happened?"

The poor shaken Khajiit uttered a series of words in his mother tongue even Ba'haka seemed to have problem to understand and in which Sigrid nevertheless heard the expression "fucking bloody bastards" quite a few times. **(1)**

While Sigrid helped Ba'haka get the poor Khajiit back on his feet, more angry screams echoed above their heads from the great esplanade in front of the Temple. Ba'haka and Sigrid exchanged a quick glance, and as one, dropped the Khajiit on the floor. The latter growled swear words while his two 'rescuers' rushed toward the stairs fifty meters away – or rather, Ba'haka rushed while Sigrid followed him waddling along, wincing in pain as she hot needles seemed to force their way into the small of her back.

"You can't do that! We have been travelling from…!"

"_Tsa mor kaka!"_

"_Baleka!_ Get back!"

"How dare you…?!"

"_M'didi_!"

"_Uyahnlanya yini!?_ Get back _I said_!"

Sigrid and Ba'haka stopped, looking, mesmerised by a large crowd of angry pilgrims being forced back by a group of angry soldiers, the two groups cursing enthusiastically at one another in different languages – Ta'agra mainly, a few insults also flew in the respective mother tongues of the non-Khajiit pilgrims.

"But what the Oblivion are they doing?" Ba'haka wondered aloud, still glaring at the scene.

Sigrid scratched her head. "Isn't it a local tradition? Chaos seems to be the rule around here."

Ba'haka replied with a sidelong look Sigrid totally ignored, as she spotted a well-known trio in the crowd.

"Ashar!" she called, waving toward the female Khajiit. The latter did not reply at first, too busy she shaking an angry fist at the guards. But U'baba spotted Sigrid and started shaking his stick in her direction, uttering happy "wooooo!" and finally attracting Ashar's attention.

"Ashar? What's wrong?" Sigrid asked, the Khajiit came toward her, dragging U'baba behind her while U'bhuti poked his head out of the bag, shooting a smile to Ba'haka.

"The Temple…They closed it!" Ashar clearly looked beside herself, nostrils flaring in rage and clenching her fists.

"Banana." U'baba confirmed, nodding sadly.

Sigrid blinked. "What? But…"

"I was about to register us for tomorrow, and suddenly, they chased us, telling us it was _closed_!"

Ba'haka, who had been listening to the conversation shrugged. "So what? There's nothing unusual here. It will open tomorrow morning aga…"

Before he could finish his sentence, Ashar had grabbed him by the front of his tunic, pinning him against the nearest wall. "You don't get it, you stupid male!" she screamed. "They are going to close it _permanently_!"

**7777777777777777**

Far from Corinth, in the dusty savannah around Torval, at the bottom of the ramparts of the city, a little group of coloured tents livened up the rather monotonous landscape.

The camp of the Magnificent Four, the best mercenaries of Tamriel – according to themselves and the leaflets they were distributing everywhere – was an example of order and military efficiency. Or rather, it was _supposed _to be because, at the moment, it showed more "complete panic" than 'martial effectiveness'…

"No, Ralentu, _no_!" Bombassa yelled. "For the last time, there is no way we are taking this _thing_ with us!"

"But…!"

The voice of the Dunmer sounded a bit strange. It was like he was talking from a tin can, which was actually the case.

Bombassa shoot a very dark look at the gigantic mechanic _thing_ standing in front of him. It was as tall as five Nords standing on one another's shoulders. Its bronze metallic surface gleamed in the sun of Elsweyr, while its eight translucent 'eyes' seemed to glow. "Enough Ralentu! Get out of here before I decide to get a can opener!" he barked. "We're all fed up with your… your… your stupid _inventions_ 'of Doom!'"

An approving roar came from the troop of mercenaries' cowering some 'safe' distance behind their leader. Only Bombassa's two lieutenants, Anirne the Altmer and Urzob the Orc had the guts to stand by the Redguard while facing Ralentu's latest creation. However, their expression indicated clearly they wished they were somewhere else too, preferably somewhere far from here…

The gigantic spider – of Doom – raised a leg in the air, creaking metallically as it started to scratch its 'head' in apparent puzzlement. "But _Bombassa_!" protested Ralentu from inside the device in this strange voice. "I have not showed you all the options offered by this _wonderful _piece of technology!"

"If they include blowing us up like all your creations tend to, I'm not sure we want to see them..." Urzob hissed, while all the mercenaries behind her nodded in approval.

"I thought I was clear on the subject." Bombassa added in a strong voice. "No. More. Silly. _Inventions_!"

"But it is not silly! Look at what it can do!"

"Ralentu, _don't_…!" Bombassa warned – but too late.

A strange and disturbing sound issued from the invention, making all the mercenaries instinctively duck – an excellent idea as a strange tube appeared from between the eyes of the Spider, belching forth a burst of flames which sizzled at human eye level.

"Are you crazy?!" Bombassa shrieked, getting up as the tube disappeared back in the Spider. "You could have killed us!" Behind him, in a concert of screams, the rest of the mercenaries tried to put out the fires burning amongst the tents.

"I can even regulate the heat! I can make it so hot it can make metal melt, you know." Ralentu cried happily, obviously not giving a damn about the havoc he had just started. "Awesome, isn't it?"

"No it is not!" Bombassa barked. "I don't know if you'd noticed, but you just set the whole camp on fire!"

"Bah, it is just bits of cloth…"

"_Bits-of-cloth-in-which-we-store-our-equipment-you-idiot!"_ the Redguard yelled in rage, stamping his foot angrily. "And don't you think we have enough to do with Anirne in terms of flaming stuff randomly?!"

"Hey, I don't flame stuff _randomly_!" Anirne protested in a low voice. "'If it is not screaming while burning, it is not interesting' – that's my motto…"

"_Ah_! But even our little pyromaniac Altmer here can't match the fire power of the Spider of Doom." Ralentu replied boldly. "And our equipment will become totally obsolete compared to what my wonderful invention can do!"

Joining action to his words, another series of random noises issued from the Spider of Doom, then with a 'splotch!', the device spat a tiny white ball in between its mandibles. It flew in the air before deploying itself into a net looking very much like a spider web.

Anirne shrieked when the net wrapped around her, leaving her rolling in the dust trying to get loose. "_Ralentu! You stupid Ashborn!" _She screamed, "_You evil disgusting son of a b…!_"

"As you can see," Ralentu continued over Anirne, who was still yelling bad things about his mother, "the Spider of Doom is equipped with nets that can be thrown up to one hundred meters. Made out of Daedra silk, they are _extremely_ resistant and can be launched with great accuracy."

"Hmmm…" Bombassa scratched his chin and showed of the first time a bit of interest as he watched Anirne struggling and swearing. The Redguard then exchanged a look with Urzob. The Orc shrugged, but now looked rather interested as well.

"But that's not all." Ralentu continued. The Spider of Doom moved with incredible speed toward the bound Elf and picked her up with a little hook ending one of its legs. "Once the prisoner is caught, you can either 'store' them in that special compartment," the superior part of the Spider's skull opened, revealing an empty cubicle, "or, if they are not needed any more, they can be… _definitely_ dealt with."

"What?!" Anirne yelled, shaking the net in anger and fear. "Nooooo!"

The leg holding the High Elf moved toward the mandibles. There was a third mechanic noise and simultaneously, the mandibles produced a series of circular dentate blades which started to rotate at high speed.

"Altmer steaks, anyone?" Ralentu asked cheerfully as the net containing Anirne dangerously neared the rotating saws.

"Ralentu…" warned Urzob.

The Orc did not need to finish her sentence. Screaming in pure rage, Anirne started to glow with an orange aura. Focusing all her energy, she unleashed a powerful fire attack on the Spider.

For a few seconds, the device disappeared in a sea of flames – flames so powerful they reached the tents standing behind the Spider, burning them and making the mercenaries, who had _just_ put out the first bout of fires, run toward the new one screaming in renewed panic.

The heat melted the net, freeing Anirne from her prison. She hit the ground on her bum, then crawled quickly toward Bombassa and Urzob, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the Spider, which miraculously remained unharmed by the attack, apart from a few traces of soot here and there.

"Oh, I forgot to mention the Spider is equipped with a special coating which protects it from most attacks from the Destruction School of Magic." Ralentu said in a conversational voice. "And, last but not least, it can make good _tea_!"

As quick as lighting, one leg held up a tray with three cups of hot tea materialising gods-knew-how in front of Bombassa and Urzob. The latter carefully picked up a cup with two of her huge fingers, bringing it to her lips.

"Hey, not bad," she declared after taking a sip. "Do you want some, Anirne?" she asked the Altmer, who was still on the ground, her arms stretched out to her sides, half-melted Daedra silk still sticking to different parts of her body. She was covered in soot and smelt strongly of burnt.

"Shut up and let me die." Anirne whined.

"I have to say I am impressed." Bombassa said to Ralentu as he helped himself with a cup of tea as well. "_Very_ impressed. You haven't managed to kill any of us yet…"

The Redguard did not know how Ralentu managed to do that, but it seemed the Spider was now looking at him with hopeful eyes. "Does that mean you'll let me take the Spider with us to Corinth?" Replied the Dunmer's hopeful voice.

"No! No!" Anirne protested, sitting up as if thrown by a catapult. "Bombassa! _No_!"

Imperturbable, the Redguard sipped his tea, glaring at the bottom of the cup. Then he raised his head with a smile on his face. "Yes, the Spider comes with us."

"Woohoooo!"

The front part of the Spider with the eight eyes opened, revealing a thrilled Ralentu in the cockpit, both arms raised toward the sky in a sign of victory. He pushed the big protective goggles his was wearing up onto his forehead, his face radiating happiness as he started to manipulate some of the many levers around him, the Spider leaping with joy. "You won't regret it Bombassa, I swear! I am going to improve it a bit before we leave and…"

"Aaah, stop it!" Bombassa yelled as he got almost thrown of balance by the vibrations of the ground. "I need to talk with Urzob and Anirne now, so we leave you have fun with your cogwheels and stuff – but no more burning-the-whole-camp-down, right?"

"Yay!"

And without further formalities, Bombassa turned his back on Ralentu and the Spider, motioning his two other lieutenants to follow him.

"You agreed. You _agreed_." Anirne kept repeating, sounding truly offended as she followed Bombassa and Urzob, trying to rid herself of the melted silk. "After what happened with all Ralentu's creations, I can't believe you agre…"

"Enough Anirne!" The Redguard spat as he sat on a rock when he estimated they were far enough from the camp, so as not to be overheard by unwanted ears. "I accepted because I don't really have a choice. This is one of the reasons I needed to talk to you."

Altmer frowned at her boss. "You didn't have the choice? What do you mean?"

Bombassa remained silent, clearly looking embarrassed as well as for the proper words to use, so Urzob came to the rescue.

"We're bankrupt."

The Altmer looked in turn at the Orc and the Redguard with eyes like saucers.

"What?!" she finally stammered.

"You heard Urzob perfectly well." Bombassa growled. "We're broke, flat broke – a whole lot of 'broke'."

"But… _How_?"

The Redguard warlord waved with his arms and sighed. "The regular thrashings we received from Ashar have both displeased Raksada – and as you may have noticed – left our equipment in an extremely poor state. And I'm not talking about all the men we've lost… So basically, we've spent a lot of money on new fighters and weapons while not receiving any income. "

Anirne rolled her eyes. "I know the basic functioning of a budget, thank you! But not you apparently..." She shook her head. "And you just now realise this? Couldn't you stop the botch before getting us stuck in such a situation?"

"Stop what exactly?" Urzob asked the Altmer with a shrug. "We have a _contract_ with Raksada, Anirne. We have to _honour_ it if we want to be _paid_. We can't throw in the towel – our reputation as reliable mercenaries is at stake."

"Not only that." Bombassa added. "You saw Raksada this morning... If we try to slip away, we will pay with our blood." The Redguard shivered and he let a finger running around the dark marks left around his neck by Raksada's hands. "And I don't know about you, but I have no desire to visit our dear employer's personal torture chambers…"

A gloomy silence ensued.

"Basically, you are telling me we are cornered." Anirne sighed. "And what is the link with Ralentu's stupid Spider of Crap?"

Urzob nodded sadly. "We are doomed to (success), especially now Raksada's given us another mission. So, you understand any extra help is good to have – even if offered by Ralentu's Spider..."

Anirne pouted, apparently convinced by Urzob's argument but clearly not pleased about the situation. "I have a bad feeling about this mission," she muttered. "How did Raksada know where Ashar was, anyway?"

Bombassa got up from his rock and started to pace back and forth. "I don't know. The message he sent earlier was not very clear. He just said to get ready to leave tomorrow for Corinth, and to bring as many men as possible."

"I agree with Anirne – it is not going to be piece of cake." Urzob said, making a clicking noise with her tongue. "The Corinthians have traditionally aligned with the Mane, I'm not sure they're going to appreciate us showing up with a contingent of soldiers on the orders of the guy who toppled their beloved leader. The welcome is certainly going to be rather cold…"

"I know how to warm things up." Anirne sniggered, snapping her fingers and producing a flame.

"It's not the welcome we'll receive that worries me." Bombassa retorted, stretching as he contemplated his mercenaries still struggling with the fires, "but the fact Raksada is coming with us this time…"

Both Urzob and Anirne looked as though they had eaten something distasteful.

"Wha…_what_?" Urzob babbled. "But you didn't say…!"

"No, I did not tell you first." Bombassa sighed. "But given we are having a little chat about bad news…"

"But he _can't_!" Anirne protested. "Sha'ka's coronation is tomorrow! Raksada is his closest advisor! He _has_ to attend the ceremony!"

Bombassa shrugged, shuffling a stone with his sandaled foot. "I don't know what excuse Raksada came up with. I think Sha'ka might actually be relieved to get rid of him, seeing as so many think he's the real power behind the throne. But all this politics is none of our business."

"I'm not sosure." Anirne grumbled. The huge twisted tower soaring over the plain behind her was still under construction, but the work had progressed incredibly fast over the last weeks. "Gods, am I the only one who thinks all this seriously _stinks_?"

"Speaking of stinking," Urzob started in a conversational voice, "given the strong smell of burnt currently tickling my nostrils, and the increasing volume of screams, I'm ready to bet my double axe Ralentu is trying the 'burning option' of his Spider _again_..."

The three mercenaries exchange a glance before charging back into camp.

**7777777777777777**

Lying on her back in the bedroom she was sharing with Ashar, U'bhuti and U'baba, Sigrid tried to relax, and to ignore the vermin which – she did not doubt for an instant were crawling in her filthy straw-filled mattress.

Sleeping had become torture. In the beginning, Sigrid managed to adapt to her big, bulky belly by lying on her back. Now the weight of the baby was such that her kidneys felt crushed when she did. As for lying on one side, it was even worse, the weight transferred to part of her bladder with evident possible consequences…

"_It__'s just a matter of a couple weeks before your delivery and the beginning of your new life as a happy mother."_ Clairvoix' appeasing voice resonated in her head._"Let's hope we finish our mission before then."_ Sigrid replied, wincing. _"Imagine, running around Elsweyr with a newborn…" _

"_Quite an experience.__"_

"_One I don't want to try.__ But our business here isn't getting any better, I'm afraid..."_ Sigrid sighed, passing a hand over her belly. _"You know, I wish I was home again."_

"_In the Cheydinhal Sanctuary? But I thought…"_

"_No."_ Sigrid replied, shaking her head sadly. "Home. _In High Rock."_

"_Ah…" _

Clairvoix' mind raced at top speed, trying to find a comforting answer, but there was none. The bitter reality remained that Sigrid was dead for everybody there, and as such, she could never come back. Worst of all, her father, an only child now childless, the Trencavel Estate would fall into the hands of the few remaining, degenerate heirs of the much hated Montfort family…

"_You need to sleep. Try to relax a bit."_ Lame, but at least it was neither polemical nor twisting the knife.

"_I wish I could…"_

Somewhere in the darkness on her right, Sigrid could hear the regular breathing of Ashar and U'bhuti as well as the soft snores of U'baba. Even if Ashar had fumed all evening with the Temple being now closed, it did not seem to perturb her sleep much. Sigrid was ready to believe the cunning Khajiit had a plan in mind. The trouble was determining what kind of plan, and what part she expected Sigrid to play in it.

The Breton shifted a bit on her mattress. It did not feel more comfortable but at least she hoped she managed to crush some of the skittering vermin in the process.

"_No__ Sigrid,"_ said Clairvoix when it realised the woman's fingers were playing with the datadice she had retrieved from her purse. _"You should try to sleep."_

"_I can't. So why not using that long night __constructively, hey?"_

"_You won't give up until I say 'yes', will you?"_ Clairvoix sighed when Sigrid gave it a mental grin. "_All right, I'll activate the stupid dice again. Just hum the song…"_

Sigrid took the datadice in her palms as it flashed red, activated by Clairvoix. Sigrid then brought it before her lips, whispering a few verses of "Death's Servant", and with a familiar metallic clicking, the dice opened. No more than a few minutes were needed by Sigrid to concentrate and connect her mind to the memories to the dice.

And once more, she was sucked up by the maelstrom of the past…

--

Ornate tapestries hung on the stony walls, fluffy, soft carpets littered on the ground, while expensive furnishings glittered in the light cast by the massive _fireplace_.

Oh how Sigrid's host _loved_ the fireplace so…

Like the big cat J'Ghasta truly was at heart, he had installed himself on the carpet right in front of it, happily roasting after that awful, rainy day. If he was not purring in pleasure yet, it was because of the conversation – or rather, the row - going on right before his eyes. As far Sigrid could judge by the level of annoyance in the participants, it had brewed for a while before erupting...

"How _could_ you?!" Vicente Valtieri barked, gesturing angrily toward a silhouette in an armchair not far from fireplace, its legs crossed and its face concealed by shadows. "_How could you?!_ You _lied _to _me_ from the very beginning!"

"For the last time, Vicente, I had no other choice," the silhouette growled. Bending forward, the face of Rivanone Trencavel appeared in the light of the fire. The Breton bard glared intently at her vampire Silencer, though lines of weariness began to show on her face. "The Knight of Gold and Azure made it very clear I should put you in the confidence only at the very last moment."

"'At the very last moment'," Vicente repeated in a low hiss. "A diplomatic way of saying you wanted to inform me of the _fait accompli! _I really appreciate the fact you've finally confided in me, because Araklos Drothan has my back against the wall!"

"If you want to complain, go and see Gold-Azure." Rivanone replied in a tone she wanted to sound patient, though the way she massaged her temples showed she was doing her best to contain her irritation. "As I said, it was _her _wish."

"A wish you seemed strangely eager to respect this time, contrary to your usual habits of _systematically _doing the opposite of the instructions she gives you." Vicente observed testily. "And why would she have wanted me kept out of the loop on this mission?"

Rivanone shot the vampire a sidelong glance. "Gold-Azure did not want you kept out of the loop, Vicente. She just wanted to prevent any contentions originating from your general direction. I think she learnt her lesson, given how you reacted last time…"

"My anger was justified, and Gold-Azure knows it!"

Rivanone shrugged. "Your personal grudge with the Knight of Gold and Azure is not my business, nor does it matter at the moment. By helping her, we are serving the glory and the superior interest of the Dread Fat…"

"No, Rivanone, _no_!" Vicente yelled, banging both fists on the table standing in the middle of the room as he passed by it. "That is _exactly_ the problem! You should know by now Gold-Azure is nothing but..."

The vampire stopped, shooting a sidelong look at J'Ghasta. The latter responded with a radiant-with-innocence smile – always the attitude the Khajiit adopted when he was feeling he had done something bad without knowing what exactly.

"Nevermind." Vicente gave a little cough to clear his throat, trying to wrest his temper back under control. "Does our Unholy Matron know about this?"

Rivanone's expression became shifty. "Kind of…"

The vampire was not fooled. He gave a deep and long sigh as he passed a hand over his face wearily. "Don't tell me you were stupid enough to embark yourself in this without the _Night Mother's approval_?"

"She knew and implicitly agreed. If she hadn't, she would have stopped us. It's not as if she doesn't have the means to, after all," the bard replied with a shrug.

Vicente examined the Breton carefully in silence. "Why do you _so_ desperately want to retrieve the Mehrunes Dagon's Razor, Rivanone? What has pushed you to take so many unnecessary risks?"

Rivanone did not reply, but rubbed a forefinger under her nose with a mysterious and satisfied smile on her face.

Vicente looked up toward the ceiling in annoyance, before turning his back on the bard and walked toward the fire.

J'Ghasta retreated immediately to give him room. It was as if the vampire and the bard had totally forgotten him, and the Khajiit was quite satisfied the way things were. It was so enjoyable not being yelled at or asked to do all the chores both his superiors' agile minds could come up with for once. In addition, the conversation was interesting, even if J'Ghasta had absolutely no clue what his masters were talking about.

"What annoys you most, Vicente?" The teasing voice of Rivanone asked behind the vampire's back. "That Drothan discovered your identity? That Gold-Azure contacted me _directly_ without going through you? Or that I _accepted_ her offer without asking for your oh-so-essential _blessing_…?"

"What annoys me is the fact I feel you have somehow betrayed me." Vicente said, sourly as, leaning against the lintel of the fireplace, he poked furiously at the fire. "I thought we were a team, Rivanone. I have never hidden anything from you. Anything! And now you are stabbing m…"

"Oh, cut the drama, it is not helping…"

"Cut the drama?!" Vicente burst out, turning around sharply, almost hitting J'Ghasta with the poker, which the angry vampire held not unlike a sword. "Because of you and Gold-Azure's silly plotting, Araklos Drothan has discovered the truth of my condition! Should I act as if this does not matter?! We should already be packing out things to flee Howldeath!"

"_No_." Rivanone replied calmly, raising a hand as the vampire prepared to protest again. "Tell me, Vicente, why do you think Drothan has not denounced you yet?"

For a second, puzzlement replaced anger on Vicente's face before his lips stretched in a nasty smirk, exposing his fangs. "I don't know. The result of your brilliant talents as a seductress, I suppose…?"

"I will pretend I didn't that last insidiously insulting remark." Rivanone hissed, eyes flashing. "The answer is quite obvious, my dear caustic, _jealous_ friend. However Drothan got his information, he is obviously not able to divulgate his sources."

"Who cares about his sources!? All he has to do is to ask me to remove my mask! Once he has, no one will care about asking him how and where he got his information from!" Once again, the poker flew an inch from J'Ghasta's nose, the latter prudently retreating further from the irate vampire.

Rivanone's lips curled into a radiant yet creepy smile. Unlike Vicente, no fangs appeared but the result remained unnervingly unpleasant. "It is without counting on the legitimate fear the Purple Plague inspires, my dear. Drothan would not dare open his big mouth on the matter, for the fear _I_ open _mine_ about his little…_activities_. Like us, the last thing he wants is undue attention." She shrugged, getting up from her armchair to join Vicente by the fire. "No, Drothan will not rat you out, Vicente," Rivanone's delicate hand caressed Vicente's sunken cheek. "I think he just wanted to scare us, or let us know he knew about my little trip to his camp in the bowels of Sundercliff Watch during Lord Saevus' hunting party."

"Ah yes. Another brilliant idea of yours, that one." Vicente retorted, deciding to change the subject, not so much because Rivanone's argument convinced him, but because he seemed to be looking for a new subject with which to cause discord. "Going alone to search though a subterranean passage full of not-so-friendly Dunmer looking for the Razor…If you wanted to commit suicide, you could have avoided all the trouble and simply jumped from the ramparts!"

"I can perfectly take care of myself, Vicente!" Rivanone snarled, jerking her hand away from Vicente's face, finally showing annoyance openly. "I don't need to systemically associate you will all the initiatives I am taking!"

"I don't mind you taking initiatives when they are clever, but not when they are based on a sudden impulse!"

"Who talked about sudden impulses?" Rivanone exclaimed, turning on her heels in a dramatic move to storm over and rifle through one of her numerous bags of luggage, finally uttering a little "ah-ah!" of victory as she retrieved a folded piece of paper. She walked toward the table, followed by Vicente and a more puzzled than ever J'Ghasta.

"Look!" She unfolded a hastily drawn map and started to point excitedly at some particular elements on it. "This is a map the Drothmeri army's camp…"

"Drothme whut?" J'Ghasta asked, peering over Vicente's shoulder.

"_Drothemri_, silly cat!" Rivanone spat, walloping J'Ghasta between the ears, narrowly avoiding clobbering Vicente in the process. "The name taken by Avoni Dren's and Araklos Drothan's little army. Apparently, they've been working there for weeks, excavating the bowels of Sundercliffwatch to find the entrance of the city of Varsa Baalim." She concluded more rationally.

"Varsa Baalim." Vicente repeated thoughtfully. "An Ayleid city. And the Razor would be hidden there?"

"Yes. According to what I heard during my excursion and gathered from other sources, the Razor lies in the heart of Varsa Baalim, in a place called the _Nefarivigum_." Rivanone began speaking excitedly, her eyes gleaming strangely in the light of the fire.

"And Dren and Drothan are the leaders of this expedition, hey?" Vicente asked, frowning.

"Dren is," Rivanone replied. "Or at least, he _officially_ is – because the conversations I overhead between the soldiers and workers in the camps make me think the real brain of the expedition is in fact our dear Drothan…"

The vampire looked more perplexed. "What about Methas Haalu's part in all this? And if they've found Varsa Baalim already, why haven't they retrieved the Razor yet?"

"I don't know the answer to the first question, though I'm convinced, he's a Morag Tong agent, as you proposed. I do have an answer for the second, and it's…_interesting_." The bard smiled as she pointed to a symbol not unlike a door. "This is the entrance to the Ayleid city the Dunmer started to explore before getting…_distracted_. From what I understood, Drothan, Haalu and part of their clique entered Varsa Baalim to explore it – but not before sealing the door behind them to make sure no one could interfere. Or follow them."

"A bit paranoid, our Drothan," the vampire observed softly.

"And he was probably right. Not long after entering the city, he was…Vicente?"

The vampire did not reply. He put a forefinger across his lips to intimate his companions as swiftly and noiselessly walked toward the window. Once near it, he opened it violently and, cautiously bending through it, started to scan the surroundings.

"A problem?" Rivanone asked, her eyebrows arched.

"I…just thought…" Vicente muttered, closing the window with a concern look on his face. "Never mind," he concluded, walking toward the table again. "Sorry for the interruption."

Rivanone shot him a strange look, before she resumed her story again. "As I was saying, Drothan was called back from Varsa Baalim by Dren. Apparently, e freaked out because the sentinels spotted intruders near the camp." Rivanone gave a derisive laugh. "So, he came back with Haalu and they started searching around, having sealed the door again after leaving. However, they also left some of their allies _inside_ the city, just in case."

"And?" Vicente asked with a bit of impatience.

Rivanone replied with an open laugh. "Well, in his haste, Drothan sealed the door again – but forgot the 'keys' to it. And someone stole them. Imagine that."

Vicente looked at his Speaker with eyes like saucers. J'Ghasta was wearing the same expression, thus provoking more hilarity from Rivanone.

"Hang on, hang on…" Vicente started, scratching his chin slowly. "You're telling me the Dunmer can't open the door _anymore_?"

"No, they can't," Rivanone replied, wiping a tear of laugher. "Only the one who is now in possession of the keys – which consist of bezoars by the way – can open it. The seal won't open without the 'keys' being place, on receptacles standing on each sides of the door." She motioned to the map offhandedly.

Vicente uttered an impressed whistle as he looked back at the map. "It would explain things. Their presence in the Dunmer delegation, for instance. I don't know if you noticed, but they don't seem very active in the negotiations." He looked up at Rivanone. "So, all those negotiations they should be working on, were organised to cover up their excursions to Sundercliff Watch?"

"Pretty much, though I am convinced the rest of the delegation doesn't know they're being manipulated." The bard's smile widened. "And all this raises the question of the identity of the one truly behind this expedition for finding the Razor. Someone powerful enough to make working together the scheming Dren, the ambitious Drothan and a Morag Tong assassin, all shuffled along by a delegation of some of the highest ranked members of this Morrowind house …"

"King Hlaalu Helseth." Vicente and J'Ghasta replied together.

"I think we now have a better idea of whom we will be fighting." Rivanone declared as she rolled up her map and hid it in her luggage again. "But a question remains: who stole the bezoars – yes J'Ghasta?"

The Khajiit lowered the hand he had raised for permission to talk. "Drothan must be convinced the thief is still around Howldeath, or else, he would not waste his time hanging around here."

"An excellent point, my furry pupil. Glad to see you followed the conversation." Rivanone replied, shooting the Khajiit a satisfied smile. J'Ghasta preened himself. "Someone must have noticed something – yes J'Ghasta? You don't have to raise your hand _all_ the time you know…"

The Khajiit gave a little cough. "Lucien mentioned incursions near Sundercliff Watch a few nights ago. And we even saw lights of torches. But he was not particularly impressed. It looked to him like another of those regular Dunmer incursions on Howldeath's territory. I guess the rest of the villagers must have the same reasoning…"

"Except for one, who might have discovered the truth." Vicente whispered thoughtfully. "_'Certain things should stay unearthed'_."

"I beg your pardon?" Rivanone asked, surprised.

"Do you remember what I told you about my conversation with Father Tiberius?" the vampire explained. "At some point he said '_certain things should stay unearthed. Certain things should never see daylight again_'."

There was a short silence quickly interrupted by a sharp sound as the bard clapped her hands happily. "Of course! _Of course_!" She uttered a purely evil cackle. "The priest must know more than he actually hinted…" She started to walk around the room, motioning excitedly with her arms. "Yes, despite all the precautions he took, Drothan could not hide all his activities. And Father Tiberius is clever enough to have worked out what is really happening in Sundercliff Watch."

"But why hasn't he told the Baron about it then?" Vicente wondered.

Rivanone dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. "Not our problem. Now, we need to find a way to make the priest cough up what he knows – but not in a violent way…" She frowned before turning brusquely toward Vicente with a victorious expression. "Father Tiberius holds you in some esteem, Vicente. I mean, he likes you enough to confide into you. So maybe if you use that natural charm of yours to…"

"No." Vicente replied flatly.

Rivanone stopped her gesticulation, before turning slowly toward the vampire, her expression dangerous. "I humbly _beg your_ _pardon_?"

"No," the vampire repeated, crossing his arms on his chest in outright defiance. "I am not going to do anything, Lady Trencavel. If you want to find Mehrunes' Razor, you will have to do it by yourself."

J'Ghasta winced. When Vicente started to call Rivanone 'Lady Trencavel', it meant there were troubles brewing.

And indeed, the Khajiit was right.

The bard's jaw dropped, leaving her looking dumfounded at her Silencer, before her expression quickly changed to sheer anger. "Gold-Azure has assigned us a _mission_, Vicente!" she snarled, getting close to him

"_You_ were assigned that mission," the vampire replied in a sweet voice. "As you have so clearly underlined, Gold-Azure contacted _you_, not me. _I_ have been assigned an _official_ mission for the Dark Brotherhood, to hunt a potential Morag Tong agent. I'm not here to get the Razor. Not even for you."

While Vicente remained perfectly composed, Rivanone took a turn at expressing hardly repressed rage. Her nostrils quivered with irritation, as she made an obvious effort to remain calm. Eventually, she managed to recover a measure of serenity, and managed a friendly, if clearly forced smile.

"Come on, Vicente! We have a _unique_ opportunity here! Can you simply imagine the power of that artefact? It's said to be able to kill in one strike!" A fiery, faintly crazed gleam lit up her eyes as she grabbed Vicente by the shoulders. "Even the Daedra Princes fear it! Just picture Uvani's face if we come back with… "

"Ah, that explains _everything_. You may stop right there," Vicente interrupted her coldly, freeing himself from her grasp. "Your hatred of Uvani clearly blinds you."

"You don't like him much either, so don't patronize me on the subject." Rivanone replied in a tone full of contained anger. She took a step backward. "Do you realise that with this weapon in our hands, no one would even dare to dispute our preeminence in the Black Hand and the Brotherhood?"

"The Razor has done enough damage to the Brotherhood in the past. And I have little use for fame, power or glory – unlike you apparently."

The two Bretons glared at each other in silence. Even J'Ghasta, curled near the fire again, felt a shiver running along his spine.

"J'Ghasta. _Out_." Rivanone demanded, breaking the silence and pointing at the door in a dramatic move, her eyes still riveted on Vicente.

The Khajiit made a protesting pout. "With all due respect Master, why?"

"Vicente and I need to talk." Rivanone's eyes narrowed. "_Privately_."

"But Master, where am I going to sleep if...all right, I get out," he mumbled under the dark look both Bretons shot him.

He closed the door behind him. No sooner had he snapped the door closed loudly then they starting arguing again in low hissing voices.

J'Ghasta gave a resigned sigh as he wandered down the stairs to the first floor, heading outside. He was not too worried about his masters. It was not the first time he saw them arguing and any promised violence never went beyond words. _Normally…_

Even if Vicente did not mind turning women into bloodless dolls, he would rather die than lay a finger on a lady – particularly the one he was shouting at _right now_. As for Rivanone, she preferred sarcasm than slaps in the face – except with the obvious exception J'Ghasta himself, on whom she enthusiastically practised both.

The Khajiit looked up as the cold night air sent a chill running along his spine. It had finally stopped raining, and through the light cloud cover filtered the soft lights of Masser and Secunda. The streets were empty – nothing really surprising there. In these country towns, people went to bed early. Only the local pub showed any activity, even if the said activity was far below what could be found in, say, the Imperial City.

The Khajiit shook his head as he passed by the quiet pub. Geez, this part of the world cruelly lacked pleasant – and easy – girls. As well as a nice place to sleep…

Even if Rivanone and Vicente finished arguing at a reasonable time of night, they were certainly going to reconcile afterward. He had spent enough time with them to know their reconciliation could be as noisy as their arguments. So, in either case, J'Ghasta was screwed.

Now, his only hope consisted in finding little Lucien. The boy would certainly know where to find a place to spend the night. The trouble was, the kid had been missing the whole day.

J'Ghasta sighed again, deciding to try his luck at the chapel. Lucien had told J'Ghasta he lived there with Father Tiberius. It was very late and the kid had certainly got back home now.

While he climbed the few stairs leading to the doors, J'Ghasta froze.

Some said animals had a sixth sense about things, and having a few cats in his family tree meant the Khajiit certainly inherited it. For a moment he was certain something lurked out of sight, but neither his nose, ears or eyes were able to discern anything strange in the shadows surrounding the chapel.

'_Darn, it must be the lack of alcohol and women,' _he thought as he entered the chapel. Or maybe something else, as he remembered Vicente's strange game in their room a bit earlier, when he checked the window.

The Khajiit dismissed his uneasiness with a shrug as he silently sneaked along the nave, smiling when he heard a well-known little voice whispering in the dark. His assumption was correct – Lucien was there, but the Khajiit's smile vanished as he wondered to whom the boy was speaking…

Sneaking in the shadow and hiding behind the pillars, J'Ghasta edged closer to the source of the voice, somewhere near the altar. Lucien sat on the steps, his legs tucked under him and a book entitled "Races of Tamriel" open in front of him.

The dim bluish light of one of the tinted windows fell upon him, giving him in a pale halo. He was turning the pages, commenting and reading their content to an invisible listener.

"And you see, this one is a _Ca-thay-Raht _– like you," Lucien was saying, pronouncing each syllable of the name very carefully. "Note the abundant mane and the developed musuclula… musulcla… _Crap_… Muscl…"

"_Musculature_." J'Ghasta corrected as he slid out from behind a pillar. "Talking about me, are you?" he added, flexing his right biceps and shaking his big mane, beaming as he approached the child.

J'Ghasta's sudden appearance surprised Lucien so much that he jumped. He did not look exactly thrilled at the sight of the Khajiit. "Oh! Er, J'Ghasta…" he babbled, dropping the book on the floor and hiding something behind his back. "Nice to see you."

"Yeah, you clearly look very happy to see me." J'Ghasta commented sarcastically. "What are you hiding in your back?" He added as he came closer to Lucien.

Lucien shuffled a few steps backwards quickly. "Nothing!" he replied with too much haste to sound honest. J'Ghasta smiled evilly, and in less than a heart beat, he had sneaked behind the surprised boy, snatching from his hands what he was so eager to conceal.

"A…plush?" J'Ghasta asked, bemused as he examined a strange, fluffy doll which looked horribly familiar with its tail, big ears and a very messy mane.

"Give it back!" Lucien demanded, jumping up and down to get his toy back, but J'Ghasta carefully held it far from his reach.

"Is this supposed to be..._me_?!" J'Ghasta was looking, hypnotised, at the doll.

"Give it back! _Please_!" Lucien begged, still jumping and with a tremor in his voice.

J'Ghasta finally sighed and gave the doll back to the boy. Lucien grabbed it, hiding it behind his back again, looking at the floor and blushing. "Thank you," he whispered.

An awkward silence ensued. J'Ghasta eyed the boy, wondering if he should laugh or get angry, while Lucien shifted silently from foot to foot.

"You...did it alone?" J'Ghasta finally ventured. "It's...quite true to life."

Lucien blushed a bit more. "I did most of it, but Master Valtieri gave me a hand with the ears."

"Ah. Er, and does it have a name…?" J'Ghasta went on, prompted by horrified fascination and a bad premonition.

Eyes still riveted to the floor, Lucien was now so red he looked about to explode. "Mister Fluff," he replied in a tiny and mortified voice.

"Ah." J'Ghasta smiled nastily. "A suggestion from Vicen... _Master Valtieri_, I suppose."

Lucien shyly looked up. "You're not angry, are you?" he asked, biting his lower lip in distress.

J'Ghasta opened his mouth, then closed it and smiled. "No, I'm not. I'd even say I'm… flattered," he said, ruffling Lucien's hair before his expression became serious again. "What I am annoyed with is spending most of the day looking for you, you know. Where did you disappear to?"

Lucien walked toward the book he had dropped "Sorry, but I was busy," he mumbled.

"Busy doing what? Hiding your face from everyone after the little incident with you father this morning?"

The boy reacted, stung, and a shadow passed on his face. "No, it's not that!" he spat as he picked up the book from the floor and walked toward one of the benches on which he put the book and the doll. "Father Tiberius needed my help…"

"… and you went hiding." J'Ghasta ended.

Lucien shot him a murderous glance and was about to reply but suddenly looked very miserable. "Yes, I went hiding," he whispered as he sat on the bench, his shoulders lowering sadly.

J'Ghasta sighed and came sitting near the boy. "You know, I'm not going to tell you the usual bullshit about 'deep in his heart, your father loves you, blablabla', because we both know it isn't true."

Lucien's shoulders slumped a bit more.

"_But_," J'Ghasta continued in a cheerful voice, "_but_, there are other things in life than foul-mouthed fathers…"

Lucien looked up, the sad expression on his face giving way to a dumbfounded one. "Like…?"

The Khajiit beamed. "Well, me, for example – aaaah, don't make such a face! I was joking. Well there are other things, like…" J'Ghasta looked thoughtful for a moment before his face painted with a 'eureka!' expression. "You have friends, haven't you?"

Lucien shot him a blank look before he shrugged. "Of course I have. There is – let me see – Big Tommy, Afton, Tim-Ku, Ericus," he said, enumerating the names while counting on his fingers, "and, of course, Suzette."

J'Ghasta giggled, nudging the kid. "Oh, and-of-course-Suzette hey? Who is she? Your girlfriend?"

"My fiancée." Lucien puffed himself up. "I am going to marry her, you know. Father Tiberius will celebrate our marriage. He likes Suzette a lot too and he calls her," the boy frowned in concentration, "'a woman of character' – but I'm not sure what that means…"

"Trouble, believe me." J'Ghasta replied, grinning when the picture of a certain Breton bard materialised in his head. "Have you ever kissed her?"

"_Kissed_ her?" Lucien replied, frowning.

J'Ghasta rolled his eyes. "Are you country folk totally retarded or what? _Kissing_. You know, like _this_." The Khajiit bent forward, joining his hands by his head and making "kiss kiss" noises with his lips.

"Bergh!" Lucien exclaimed, pushing J'Ghasta away in disgust. "That's disgusting!"

"No, it is not. It is fun, believe me!"

The boy froze and his eye wide in horror. "You mean…_You_ kiss girls? Like – _on the mouth_?"

"Among other places, yes…" the Khajiit replied with a totally devious giggle.

The boy's face was now a mask of utter repulsion. "You're _crazy_! Kissing girls? On the _mouth_? But - a but that's how you can_ catch babies_!"

There was a long thoughtful pause. J'Ghasta was glaring right in front of him, Lucien's words slowly thinking in.

"Ah…You have not been given the Speech about bees, flowers and babies yet, have you?" J'Ghasta asked carefully.

"What is it about bees and flowers?" The boy suddenly looked all appalled. "They kiss on the mouth too?!"

The Khajiit coughed. "Nevermind…Just, try to remember you don't _catch_ babies by kissing. It is not like a cold, all right?"

"Right." Lucien replied, nodding. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, because Suzette doesn't like kisses. She thinks they are for sissies."

"Quite a girl, that Suzette…" J'Ghasta replied, winking.

"Yes, and everybody likes her," Lucien said proudly. "Corvus, my brother, wanted her to be _his _fiancée, but she chose _me_ instead," he added with a satisfied smile.

'_Finally something that your father's blue-eyed boy did not get, hey?'_ J'Ghasta thought as he and Lucien became silent, observing the bluish light getting through the stained glass window on which Akatosh was giving his blessing to his staunch believers.

"Do you believe in gods?" Lucien asked out of the blue.

The question took J'Ghasta totally aback. Darn, after having loosely tackled the 'mysteries' of sexuality, now he had to get into those of theology…

And what answer to give the kid anyway? Telling him he was actually serving a mysterious entity which rejoiced in murder was certainly _not_ a good idea. "I do believe in them yes, but I don't really mind them either." J'Ghasta answered cautiously. "They're just…there. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know…" Lucien jumped from the bench and walked toward the altar. He let his hand running on its surface on which was engraved an Imperial Dragon. "I guess that if they existed, they would answer prayers, wouldn't they?"

"I'm not sure. I guess most of the time they just don't care…" J'Ghasta giggled. "What do ask them exactly?"

"Ooooh, plenty of things…" the boy replied evasively, following the lines of the engraved dragon with his forefinger. "But I wish Akatosh could make Father name me his personal page, like he did with Corvus to train him as a knight."

"Oh, you want to be a knight?"

The boy stopped looking at the altar and his face suddenly blossomed with enthusiasm. "Oh yes! I want to wear a shiny armour like the captains of the legion, having a big sword fighting against bandits and evil doers and…" His excitement suddenly dropped and he took a sad and sour expression. "But it won't happen, will it? Corvus said chivalry is for nobles only, not for bastards like me…"

There was another pause filled by the creaking of the bench as J'Ghasta leaned back, observing Lucien carefully.

"Did you get along well with your brother?" the Khajiit asked aloud.

The question made Lucien's face wry with a nostalgic smile. "Most of the time yes," he replied, shrugging. "We played a lot together with the rest of the gang and Corvus was nice. Except when Father was around…"

"I see." the Khajiit said slowly.

Lucien stopped looking at the Imperial Dragon engraved on the altar and turned his face toward J'Ghasta. The latter was not sure if it was because of the way the shadows of the church were playing on the boy's face, but his expression put him ill-at-ease. "Do you have a brother who will _always_ be better than you, whatever you do?"

"Er… No. As I already told you, I have enough to do with my eight older sisters who think I'm their personal baby doll," J'Ghasta tried to use humour to change the subject.

"Then, you can't claim to understand me," Lucien replied with an impenetrable air.

"I don't claim any such thing Lucien. But believe me, whatever your brother Corvus did to you, there is nothing worse than being given a bath by hysterical females who want to put talc on your butt and force you to wear nappies."

Lucien finally relaxed a bit and giggled. "That's very embarrassing."

J'Ghasta raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. So I'm counting on you to keep the secret."

"I promise," Lucien replied solemnly, putting his right hand over his heart. "J'Ghasta?"

"Hmm?"

"You told me a secret, so this means we're friends, aren't we? And friends can tell each other secrets, right? So – can I tell you a secret too?"

The Khajiit made a little clicking of this tongue. Dear gods, he thought he had already passed that moment of the discussion where things got emotional. "Yeeeees…?"

"Do you remember when you asked the other night about those lights near Sundercliff Watch?"

_Sundercliff Watch_…The word felt like a slap in the face to J'Ghasta, but he tried to keep a distant expression on his face. "Yep – the Dunmer's incursions, yeah, right…"

"Well, those _were_ actually Dark Elves, but they…they…" Lucien tripped over the word and it seemed to J'Ghasta he looked a bit paler. "There's something that…"

Someone screamed. A scream so powerful it made both Lucien and J'Ghasta jump in surprised.

The Khajiit hissed internally. By Sithis, was it impossible to have a quiet conversation around here without being interrupted by _screams_?

It was not so much the interruption that perturbed J'Ghasta this time, the scream was very different than the ones which usually pierced the nights of Howldeath. It was not expressing total despair and sadness, but sheer horror.

Lucien and J'Ghasta exchanged a quick glance. The boy looked totally terrified.

"It came from the factory…" he said in a tiny voice. "You know, the one on the other side of the chapel."

Without waiting for more explanations, J'Ghasta jumped to his feet, bursting out of the chapel, followed by Lucien, begging him to wait and not to run so fast.

Once outside, the Khajiit rushed toward the back entrance of the factory before stopping, looking for a potential trail. Around him floated a strange and sweetish smell. A very familiar and nauseating smell, a mix of hot metal and…

… _blood. _

"What factory is this again, Lucien?" the Khajiit demanded, trying to ignore the smell invading his nostrils. Darn, the blasted odour was making him salivate like mad, something he was desperately trying to hide from Lucien – so as not to scare him – though he furiously felt like murdering a rare steak _right now_.

"The _black pudding_ factory," Lucien whispered, grabbing J'Ghasta's paw and clutching it nervously.

"Charming."

"J'Ghasta, we shouldn't be here. Let's go away, we'll call the guard!" the boy squeaked, trying to hold the Khajiit back as he put a paw on the handle of the door leading to the production site.

J'Ghasta freed himself from his grip and crossed the threshold. "Ye gods…"

The room the Khajiit entered was bathed in the dim light of a few candles on the walls. Several huge cauldrons full of pigs' blood boiled in the centre of the room, which echoed noisily with the noise made by the bubbles piercing the liquid surfaces of the cooking blood. From the roof hung a series of sinisterly sharp, pointy devices, the exact functions of which remained obscure to J'Ghasta, even if the Khajiit guessed it had something to do with hanging and gutting pork carcasses…

This was not was what worried him most. No, he was more troubled by the pair of pale calves surmounted by shoes, sticking out of the closest cauldron.

"J'Ghasta?" Lucien squeaked in a tiny voice.

"Yes?" the Khajiit replied, gulping and grabbing the boy's shoulder out of nervousness.

"I think there is _someone_ in this…" Lucien clearly wanted J'Ghasta to invalidate the evidence.

The Khajiit tightened his grip on the kid's shoulder. "Let's get out of here," he whispered. Not that he was particularly impressed by the sight of a corpse, but the assassin in him was yelling him it was not a good idea to stay, looking stupid, at the scene of a crime.

_Crime__. _The word made J'Ghasta wince inwardly. Unless the guy currently soaking in the black pudding cauldron felt the sudden urge to jump head first into it in the middle of the night, there indisputably was a wacko wandering around here, who liked to drown people in cooking blood…

In spite of the urgency he felt to quickly run _somewhere else_, the Khajiit found himself unable to move, hypnotised by the two bare, hairy legs pointing toward the ceiling. There was a terribly, morbidly comical aspect to the situation. J'Ghasta suppressed a nervous giggle.

"Do you think he's dead…?" Lucien asked again in such a low whisper J'Ghasta had trouble hearing him.

The Khajiit winced at the idea of still being _alive_ and bathing in a sea of pig blood. "Honestly, I hope not…"

"What's – oh by the Nine Divines!" A voice exclaimed in horror at their backs, quickly followed by more footsteps and fearful exclamations.

The four workers filled the doorway, glaring at the scene with mesmerised expressions.

"What the Oblivion have you _done_!?" yelled the first of them, pointing at the legs sticking out of the cauldron.

"It wasn't us_! It wasn't us_!" J'Ghasta protested hurriedly. "We were in the chapel, we heard a scream and…"

"I'm calling the watch!" exclaimed another worker. "And you two, you stay here!" he added, pointing a menacing finger at J'Ghasta and Lucien.

The man did not need to leave the factory. Alerted by the screams, it was as if half of the city suddenly turned up. The room started to fill with people carrying torches and in some cases daggers. Still wearing their nightclothes. All the new arrivals froze, gaping in horror at the cauldron before turning their attention to J'Ghasta and Lucien. The boy was trying to hide behind the Khajiit's legs, clearly terrified. As for the latter, he knew trouble was just starting.

"What's going on here?" barked a loud voice. The crowd split quickly to let Baron Saevus, followed by Captain Varo of the watch and five of his men through their ranks.

Unlike the rest of the onlookers, Lord Saevus was fully dressed, wearing his sword and scabbard around his waist. J'Ghasta pondered for an instant over the reasons why the Baron might stay fully clothed and armed at a time when most people were sleeping.

Lord Saevus' predatory grey eyes scanned the room, falling immediately on the cauldron, his face twisting in anger.

"Explanations! _Now_!" he barked.

In less than a heartbeat, one of the workers rushed toward the Baron and bowed to him. "We don't know exactly what happened, my lord," he said nervously. "We heard the scream and found the boy and the big cat man here, with the body in the cauldron…"

The level of whispers of the crowd increased, as people shot sidelong glances at Lucien and J'Ghasta.

"The proper name is 'Khajiit', not 'cat man', moron." J'Ghasta hissed, but he fell silent when Saevus shot him a distinctly unpleasant look, before his eyes fell upon Lucien, who cowered and whimpered under the gaze.

"What are _you_ doing _here_, boy?" the Baron hissed malevolently.

Lucien continued to cower, making J'Ghasta wince when he drove the tips of his fingers deeper in the muscles of the Khajiit's thigh out of anxiety.

"Captain Varo!" the Baron snapped, finally reporting his attention on the cauldron.

The watchman answered by sharply banging his armoured chest with his.

"Take you men and search the surroundings," Lord Saevus ordered. "The murderers can't be far," he added, shooting J'Ghasta a shrewd look.

"Yes my lord." Another _bang_ of salute, then the captain and his soldiers left the factory, elbowing their way out through the whispering crowd.

"As for you two," the Baron continued, pointing to two of the workers, "get the body out of the caldron. Quick!"

The two men reluctantly neared the container and, not making any effort to hide their repulsion, climbed on the trestle tables on either side in order to grab the corpse by the ankles without falling in after it. Around them, the horrified whispering of the crowd increased. As they carefully hauled the body out of the cauldron and lay it on the flagstones, arms stretched out on its sides, the sickly sounds of blood splashing sent members of the crowd with weaker constitutions vanishing, pasty faced and nauseated.

Disgusted exclamations rose in the air accompanied a few retching sounds of those not so fleet of foot. The corpse's red, repulsive, viscous coating made his features hard to recognise.

"Someone get water!" Lord Saevus demanded.

Almost immediately, a man rushed in with a bucket of water, which he flung on the face of the wretched man. Surprise and shock rippled through the crowd as the water diluted the blood on the corpse's face, while the closest onlookers addressed short but loud prayers to the Nine Divines. Lord Saevus' eyes flashed in anger.

Lucien buried his face in J'Ghasta's pants, suppressing a sob as he tried to unsee the grisly truth.

Eyes wide opened in terror, Father Tiberius, the priest of Howldeath, gazed blankly at the ceiling. His neck and the upper part of his chest a collection of wide, gaping wounds, his fingers still clutching at his murderers.

"Who dared…?" the Baron whispered, looking around him as if he thought he would find the culprit in the crowd cowering under his gaze. "_Who dared?!_" His voice echoed loudly in the factory and the onlookers did their best to avoid his murderous glance.

"I doubt anyone here will be able to answer you, Lord Saevus," a calm voice declared from near the door.

All heads in the room turned toward the sound of the voice to see His Excellence Gergio Tullius of the Imperial Consular Services, leader of the Imperial delegation stepping in the room, followed by part of his staff, as well as Hortator Dralmon Sadri and the Dunmer delegation including Araklos Drothan, Avoni Dren, and Methas Hlaalu.

Like most of the crowd, they were all still wearing their nightclothes, and despite the seriousness of the situation, J'Ghasta could not help to think the whole assembly looking like some kind of huge and dramatic pyjama party.

"Excellence…" Lord Saevus greeted the newcomers from between gritted teeth. "And Hortator Sadri. It was not necessary for you to come…"

"Good lords…" the Imperial ambassador interrupted the Baron, as he strode over to the corpse, examining the terrible wounds around the neck carefully. "Why such mutilation...?"

"It looks like one deliberately savaged the body," Saevus observed coldly, obviously showing he did not appreciate his guests involving themselves in an internal affair.

"If you allow me to voice my humble opinion, Lord Saevus, I can't see a sword or a dagger causing such a wound. Teeth or claws, perhaps…" Hortator Sadri pointed out, looking from over Tullius' shoulder and frowning slightly at the torn flesh of the corpse.

The words hung in the air, as all heads turned toward Lucien, and more particularly, J'Ghasta.

The latter flattened his ears back against his skull, his eyes widening in fear at the apparently popular implications. "We didn't do anything!" he exclaimed for the second time.

"What were you doing here, Master Khajiit?" the Baron demanded.

J'Ghasta uttered a nervous chuckle. "No…seriously…you can't think Lucien and I…"

"Despite Lucien being a continuous source of trouble, I doubt he has the abilities to do _this_," Lord Saevus observed grimly. "Though you must admit, Master Khajiit, the state of the body and _your_ presence at the crime scene raises some interesting questions."

There was another silence. J'Ghasta looked around for support, but found none. Most people were now whispering in a menacing way, seeming to approve their lord's point.

"You still have not answered Lord Saevus' question," Hortator Sadri prompted. "What were you doing here?"

"We were in the chapel when we heard the scream, and we came to see what was going on! That's all!" J'Ghasta exclaimed. He was starting to feel truly scared now. Being accused of a murderer he had not committed was the epitome of irony for an assassin, and he did not like it at all. "When we arrived here, the priest was already dead in the cauldron and…"

"…_and_ I hope none of you is _stupid _enough to accuse _my_ servant!" The angry voice of Rivanone cut in sharply.

The sound almost made J'Ghasta collapse on the floor with relief.

"With all due respect, Lady Trencavel." Hortator Sadri started, raising two appeasing hands as a livid Rivanone rushed strode boldly into the room, her pretty face twisted with rage as she rudely shoved aside anyone without the sense to get out of her way under their own power. "We were just gathering the facts, investigating, that's all…"

"_With all due respect_, you know where you can_ stuff_ your _investigations_, Hortator?!" the bard grabbed the Dunmer forcibly by the front of his nightshirt, giving him a shake which provoked a wave of nervous giggles from the watching crowd, and horrified gasps from the two delegations. "Perhaps you should confine yourself to your assigned mission, which consists – may I remind you –of settling your dispute with the Imperials. It does not include playing detective, or accusing a member of _my_ staff of a crime he has not committed!"

"Lady Trencavel, really…" Ambassador Tullius rebuked her gently, which only redirected Rivanone's wrath upon him.

"And that goes for you too, _Your Excellence_!" she yelled, releasing the Dunmer to shake an angry finger under the Imperial Delegate's nose "How _dare_ you to accuse J'Ghasta?!"

Tullius rolled dumfounded eyes. "But I did not…"

"I hope for your sake, you did not! I don't know if you remember, but I am here on the Emperor's orders, and I am quite certain he would not enjoy you levelling insinuations against the servant of his favourite bard!" she barked right in the ambassador's face before turning toward the audience, which instinctively took a step back. "Have you all gone mad?! _Look at them_!" The bard pointed at Lucien and J'Ghasta who had a faint but very embarrassed smile. "One is a _toddler_ and the other an overgrown plushie! Do they look _remotely_ capable of _this_?!" She waved to the corpse.

J'Ghasta's smile froze at the words, but he nevertheless tried to look as inoffensive as he could, taking care to hide his claws. There was too much at stake to start fussing about matters of pride.

And strangely enough, it worked. As quickly as they supported Lord Saevus' and Hortator Sadri's insinuations, the crowd began whispering doubts, scratching heads and shrugging. More than Rivanone's wrath, the pathetic picture J'Ghasta was offering, with Lucien still sobbing in his pants did not sum up what brutal murderers who cast their victim's body into a black pudding on the boil ought to look like.

"Please, calm down Lady Trencavel…" said Ambassador Tullius, still waving placating at her, obviously fearing the hot-headed bard may cause a diplomatic incident of epic proportions – if it was not done already...

"Accusing my servant is accusing _me_." Rivanone snapped back, crossing her arms on her chest. "I want apologies. _Now_."

A heavy silence fell upon the room. Even Lord Saevus, mouth agape, wondered how such a petit woman could yell so loudly and be so cheeky.

"Fine, _fine_…" finally growled Hortator Sadri, smoothing the front of his nightshirt to give himself an air of assuredness. "I do apologise, Master Khajiit," he complied, with an abbreviated bow to J'Ghasta.

"Are you satisfied, Lady Trencavel?" Ambassador Tullius asked anxiously.

"Yes. I am," she replied with a derisive sniff, before turning her back to crowd and walking toward her apprentice and Lucien, the latter still hidden behind the Khajiit's legs.

"Thank you for your help, Master," J'Ghasta whispered as the Breton joined him by the cauldron. "But was it necessary to make such a fu…?"

"Attack is the best defence," Rivanone interrupted him, whispering from the corner of her mouth. "Try to remember that and shut up."

Animated discussions had resumed both in the crowd and among Lord Saevus and the two leaders of the delegations when Captain Varo and his men irrupted again in the room.

"No trace of the murderers, my lord," the Captain reported, popping up by the Baron's side. "We searched the surroundings, the chapel included, but nothing."

"No clues at all of the direction they may have taken to escape?" Saevus growled.

"No, my lord. But the apartments of Father Tiberius have been turned upside down, and he can't be found…" The soldier lowered his eyes to the figure on the ground, then winced. "Ah. This may explain why…"

"Any idea what the murderers were looking for, Captain?" Ambassador Tullius asked the soldier, earning himself a murderous look from Baron Saevus.

"I'm afraid not, Excellence," the captain replied, executing another quick salute to the ambassador. "If they were looking for something particular in Father Tiberius' room, they certainly took it with them if they found it."

"Obviously," Tullius' face darkened as he turned toward Lord Saevus. "This looks like a tricky affair, Baron. I suggest we send a message to the Imperial City to ask for the _Missi Dominici_ to investigate the matter further?"

The suggestion cast a shadow over Lord Saevus' face. The people of Howldeath did not look pleased either, unsurprising given the reputation of ruthlessness the _Missi Dominici_, the Imperial special investigators, had. What surprised J'Ghasta the most was the result of the announcement on Drothan and Dren.

If the rest of the Dunmer delegation kept neutral and unconcerned composures, the two Dunmer stooges clearly looked appalled. The prospect of the _Missi Dominici_ scrutinizing the surroundings for an indefinite period of time was certainly not to their liking.

"I can take care of my own business, Excellence," the Baron replied between gritted teeth. "I don't need the _Missi Dominici's _assistance to investigate a murder."

"A member of the clergy of the Nine has been killed, Lord Saevus. You can't ignore the fact the Emperor himself, as Talos' descendant, is the head of the Church of the Nines." Tullius replied patiently. "Attacking a priest of the Nine Divines is tantamount to attacking the Emperor himself, and thus clearly falls under his jurisdiction."

The Baron and the ambassador glared at one another in icy silence. The onlookers held their breaths, until the noiseless duel of wills was interrupted by the calm, deep voice of Methas Haalu.

"I do apologise, my lords, but I think problems of authority and procedure can certainly wait until the body of Father Tiberius has been properly attended," he said politely but firmly. "It is rather unworthy of you to argue like this over his remains."

"Lord Haalu is right, Excellence," the Baron admitted reluctantly. "Father Tiberius deserves more respect."

The crowd and the delegation gave approving whispers. The Baron barked a few orders and a cape was thrown over Father Tiberius's mutilated corpse, before it was quickly removed by four soldiers. The Baron, the crowd and the delegations followed behind, leaving the factory empty except for Rivanone, J'Ghasta, Lucien and…Drothan.

The latter headed calmly toward them, an undecipherable expression on his face.

"It is sad, really," he said nonchalantly, stopping by Rivanone. "Such a waste…""Indeed." Rivanone replied softly, her eyes riveted to the Elf's, full of distaste. "Father Tiberius was a pillar of Howldeath's community, and a good man."

Drothan gave a perfectly evil chuckle. "Oh, I was not talking about the priest, Lady Trencavel," he said, raising his arm and dipping a finger in the cauldron of cooking blood. He examined it closely and, before J'Ghasta and Rivanone's dumfounded eyes, licked it with great care and obvious enjoyment. "Aaah, they had even added the onions already. What a shame, such good black pudding…"

"You are _repugnant_," Rivanone replied with cold disdain, her upper lip curling.

"You have quite a lot of nerve to tell me such things, when you sleep with a creature who would, I am sure, _enjoy _the contents of this cauldron. Incidentally, is there a reason Master Valtieri has not joined our party? Perhaps you were afraid of him being unable to behave properly?"

"Your threats don't impress me." Rivanone snarled. "Say anything about Vicente and I will drop a few words to Ambassador Tullius about your excavations at Sundercliff Watch."

"It's a deal then," the Dunmer replied with a nasty smile. He then bowed to the Khajiit and the Breton, then left the factory without looking back.

"Gods, this guy is a screwball," J'Ghasta muttered, watching Drothan leave the factory.

"We've wasted enough time here," Rivanone growled. "Let's go." She started walking toward the exit of the factory when she heard J'Ghasta giving a cough in her back.

"Er, Master?" The Khajiit gestured to Lucien, who was still gripping his pants, face buried into the fabric, and who still refused to move. "Lucien, let me go, please," J'Ghasta asked the boy softly, trying to shake him off.

This only made Lucien gripping him twice more.

J'Ghasta shot his master a look begging for assistance.

Rivanone sighed heavily before walking back and kneeled down, gently grabbing the child by the shoulders. "Lucien," she demanded with a gentleness that took J'Ghasta totally aback. The only moments he had heard his master, Speaker of the Black Hand and patented ruthless assassin sound gentle were when she sang an _amour courtois_, a song unsuited to her usual cold, snappish and commanding tone. "Look at me, please."

The boy lifted red-rimmed eyes slowly, peering back over his shoulder. "Do you know who I am?" Rivanone asked again.

Slowly, Lucien finally let go of J'Ghasta's leg – to J'Ghasta's greatest relief – and turned around to face the woman. His face was just a flood of tears but he had stopped sobbing.

"You-are-Lady-Trencavel-the-bard," he replied in a breath, sniffling noisily.

"I am," she replied with a little smile, riffling in one of her pockets and producing a small white handkerchief, which she put over Lucien's nose. "Blow," she commanded.

Lucien complied.

"Good." She folded the handkerchief, putting it in Lucien's hand. "You can keep it, if you want."

Lucien shot her a grateful glance and, still sniffing, he stuffed it up one of his sleeves.

"Do you feel better now?" Rivanone continued.

The boy nodded silently and J'Ghasta wondered if the oh-so-chatty Lucien was now completely mute because of the shock of Tiberius' death or because he was impressed by Rivanone.

Probably both.

"You lived with the priest, didn't you?" the bard continued. "Is there someone to take care of you now he is…not among us anymore? At least for tonight?"

In a very impressive effort to get his control back, Lucien took a deep breath and replied to the woman in an almost firm voice, still laced with periodic sniffles. "I can live on my own, you know. I work at the castle, and the people there are nice to me, and there are always free rooms there so I'll always have a place to sleep, and food as well, so I'm fine, and…and..."

Lucien stopped as Rivanone glared at him in a sceptical silence, raising an "I-am-not-fooled" eyebrow. The boy glared back courageously for a while…

…until his lower lip started to tremble and his amber eyes filled with fresh tears, which began rolling down his cheeks again.

The bard rolled her eyes. "_Ohlàlà_…" she clucked with a sigh, taking Lucien in her arms. The child grabbed her neck like a shipwreck victim a lifebuoy, exploding into renewed, noisy sobs on her shoulder.

Under J'Ghasta's flabbergasted eyes, Rivanone continued to cradle the boy gently, stroking his hair and murmuring something like a song – but the purple sparkles playing on the bard's fingertips showed it was more likely a spell. Quite an effective one, because after a few seconds, Lucien calmed down.

"Let's get out of here," Rivanone whispered to J'Ghasta.

The Khajiit nodded, following her out of the factory. The bard continued stroking Lucien's head slowly, and the boy was now making an obvious effort to keep his eyes open.

"Is he sleeping now?" Rivanone asked after a short distance.

"In the arms of Vaermina." J'Ghasta confirmed. Lucien's eyes were closed now, his breathing slow and regular. "Let's hope his dreams will be a bit more pleasant than what we saw tonight."

"Speaking of that, what the _Oblivion_ you two were doing there?" Rivanone growled, careful not to wake the sleeping child. "Those morons were about to lynch you!"

"We were at the wrong place at the wrong time." J'Ghasta replied with an embarrassed cough, before looking around to see if the surroundings were safe, before continuing in a whisper. "Where is Vicente, Master?"

Rivanone's expression grew dark. "He's gone. Don't worry, he'll come back when he's ready to stop sulking." She stopped and turned her head in the direction of a group of people talking animatedly. Apparently, Lord Saevus and Ambassador Tullius were arguing again. "All right, I'd better go and see what they're up to." She transferred the sleeping Lucien into J'Ghasta's arms. The boy babbled some protesting noises before falling deeply asleep again on the Khajiit's shoulder. "As for you two, you'd better get some sleep. Lucien can stay at our place and use Vicente's bed – I doubt he'll use…"

Without further ado and with several extremely displeased looks, she started to walk toward the group of men.

"Master?" J'Ghasta called after her.

Rivanone turned back to him, raising an interrogative eyebrow.

"You think it's Drothan who is behind the murder, don't you?"

"As sure as you're a big fluffy Khajiit."

And she disappeared into the night.

--

Things around her blurred and, as usual after having 'visited' the memories in the datadice, it took Sigrid awhile to perceive her surroundings normally.

"_Surprising, isn't it?"_ Clairvoix finally observed when he felt the Breton had completely came back to her senses.

"_What__ are you talking about?"_ she asked.

"_Rivanone__'s attitude towards Lucien,_" the sword explained._ "I can't remember her giving you a single cuddle…" _

"_Neither can I__,"_ Sigrid replied curtly. _"But I remember her kicks in the butt very well."_

Clairvoix laughed. _"But on the other hand, you did not cry much, and never really liked hugs, so, I guess it was fine. Besides, even if not totally filled with love, your childhood was far from a bad one – unlike Lucien's apparently…" _

Sigrid gave an annoyed growl. _"Don't start again, trying to make excused for him…"_

"_Pardon?"_

"_I see it coming miles away. 'Poor Lucien, such an awful childhood, no wonder he became a psycho, blablabla…'" _

"_Well, one has to admit it certainly did not help him much…"_

"All_ children with a poor childhood _don't_ become ruthless assassin, Clairvoix."_ Sigrid snapped. _"Martin didn't."_

There was a dumbfounded silence.

"_Who said Martin__ had a _poor_ childhood?" _the sword asked.

"_Well..."_ Sigrid started hesitantly. _"He must have had one, being an illegitimate child and everything."_

"_Of _all _the possibilities offered to you, you chose the 'poor childhood' one…"_

"_Yes, why not?"_ Sigrid replied defiantly.

"_And why, pray?"_ sniggered Clairvoix. _"He was indeed a bastard, but the _Emperor's _bastard. I doubt Uriel would have abandoned him in the hands of dangerous or bad people."_

"_Martin said his father was a farmer!"_

Clairvoix rolled non-existent eyes_. __"So what? Farmers are supposed to be child beaters? Haven't you considered the fact that Martin may have had a nice childhood in a loving family?"_

"_Why do__ you always have to take the opposite view to mine on every single subject?!" _

"_It is not true! And please stop __making things on a personal all the time!" _Clairvoix protested. The sword was now emitting a low red aura, showing its anger was slowly building up.

"_Why do you want __to make Martin an absolute _scumbag_ at all costs!?"_ Sigrid yelled mentally.

"_And why do you__ want to make Martin an absolute _saint _at all costs?!" _Clairvoix barked back. _"He used to be a Daedra worshipper! What tells you he didn't get spoiled by his adoptive family, get his head all inflated by their doting, and started to mix with Daedric stuff for no more reason than getting power?"_

"_How can you say such awful things!?"Sigrid felt as if Clairvoix had slapped her. _

"_I just try to be realistic!_ _The way you idolize him isn't healthy, Sigrid! I know his loss was quite a shock for you__ but…!"_

"And what do you truly know about it, Clairvoix?!" Sigrid screamed, aloud this time and at the top of her voice, sitting straight up on her mattress. "What do you understand about suffering, loss or even love?! All your existence has been based on manipulation to guarantee your precious self enough power to enslave the world!"

"Banana!" yelled U'baba awoken by Sigrid's scream.

"Berthe…! Is there a problem?" Ashar woke up as well, glaring at Sigrid with sleepy eyes, immediately rocking a crying U'bhuti, scared by the Breton's outburst.

Sigrid looked U'baba and Ashar in turn, blushing in shame and anger. "No, no. It is fine. Just… a bad dream, that is all. Go back to sleep."

Ashar shot an unconvinced look at Sigrid, but let the matter drop, still cuddling a sobbing U'bhuti.

As for Sigrid, she laid down on her mattress again, still shivering with rage.

"_Sigrid…"_ Clairvoix started in an appeasing voice.

"_Leave me alone!"_ she spat, erecting a protection to lock her mind from Clairvoix' reach. She then turned her back to the sword to hide the tears rolling on her cheeks.

**7777777777777777**

"So, I was right – the _Amkana, _the Eternal Champion, is back."

Raksada nodded. Kneeling respectfully in front of one of his biggest full-length mirrors, he tried to ignore the wave of tiredness which threatened to swallow him. The Foodoo session in the Ultimate Resonator left him exhausted, and now, he was using the few magic resources he had left to maintain the connection between the mirror and his Master's.

This time, the affair was too important to respect hierarchy, so Raksada had taken the risk to contact his Master directly, bypassing the Duchess. She would certainly get all worked up about it, which meant more troubles for Raksada, when he returned to her court.

But the Duchess' tantrums were the least of the Dark elf's concern at the moment.

"Yes, my lord. Everything seems to indicate that is the case." Raksada's eyes fell onto the little necklace on the ground between him and the mirror, where it could not be missed. "Though _Amkana_'s return to our universe seemed rather… _unusual_ this time."

"In the Great Elders' Game, nothing is unusual. Especially in the case of the Eternal Champion."

Raksada raised his head and looked at the face in the mirror. Or rather the lack of face – because he hardly doubted a crazy smiling mouth and two yellow eyes like those of a cat floating in darkness could be considered as an actual _face_.

"But my lord – don't you find highly strange that the _Amkana_ pops up in our business right _now_?

The strange smiling mouth started to smile twice more and the eyes abruptly changed colours, from yellow to dark red. "Ah, but to the contrary, Mozenrak, to the contrary! It shows we are on the right track! If the Great Elders throw the Eternal Champion into our plans, it means we have disturbed them somehow… All we to do is to make sure _Amkana_ won't be an obstacle – and we know what you have to do to prevent such things from happening, don't we?"

"Yes my lord." the Dark elf replied as a shadow passed over his face. "But isn't bringing the Eternal Champion to your realm a bit…_dangerous_? I mean, if Mania is so in need of a Champion, they can…"

"Oooh, look at you Mozenrak – you are jealous already." The mouth interrupted him, cackling evilly. "Isn't that _cute_?"

The Dunmer pursued his lips but did not reply anything.

"What do you fear?" the mouth in the mirror continued to tease, while the eyes grew bigger and bigger, blowing up like big yellow balloons. "So far, you never had any problem (to deal with any of the Champion of Mania… Besides, this is my wish, and you don't want to displease me, do you, Mozenrak? Do you remember what happened last time…?"

Blood withdrew from the Dark Elf's face and one corner of his mouth started to twitch nervously as a series of highly unpleasant, incredibly vivid images flashed in his mind. "I do my lord."

The smiling mouth burst out laughing. The two eyes deflated suddenly and started to bounce like crazy balls in the fame of the mirror. "Did I mention I loved when you turned pale blue?" The eyes stopped bouncing around and the smile decreased. A little. "Ah, don't be afraid, my dear little puppet. There is no reason the plan should fail this time."

"There were no reasons for it to fail either last time, but it nevertheless happened…" the Dark Elf grouched.

The eyes in the mirror narrowed. "Pardon?"

"Nothing!" Raksada squeaked. He bent a bit more before the mirror. "It will be done as you wish, my lord."

"I have no doubt of that, Mozenrak. You know the consequences you will have to cope with if you fail." The teeth of the smiling mouth started to move as if they were swivelling. "And we stay in contact, obviously."

"Melee meep!" chirped a merry voice from one of Raksada's pockets. Raksada rolled his eyes and slapped the Powder Compact.

"Yes, my lord."

The mouth burst out laughing and disappeared, along with the eyes, accompanied by a noise similar to one of a whoopee cushion.

Raksada, now alone in the dark, still kneeling on the ground, watched the necklace intently. He did not share his Master's enthusiasm at all. Of course, when one was mixing with the Multiverse, one had to expect such Cosmic Annoyances like the Eternal Champion appearing, and spreading havoc in carefully prepared plans.

But Raksada had personal reasons to fear that _particular _Eternal Champion…

**(1)** Like everyone starting to lean a new language, Sigrid has started to learn Ta'agra by learning the "bad words" – oh come on! We all do that…


	17. Bayete, Incosi !

**Chapter 16 – Bayete, Incosi!**

**Thanks a lot to the whole of you who added to their alerts and favs this story, and thanks as well for the messages and reviews. I do apologise if I have not answered them all, I have been extremely busy lately - but the support is greatly appreciated. **

**I also would like to underline that my conception of the Multiverse (mentioned in this chapter) is for a good part based in Michael Moorcock's idea of it (I love that author so much). ^^**

**Many, MANY thanks to Raven Studio, my awesome beta reader for all the time she takes every time to correct my abundant mistakes and for her great support and suggestions.  
**

**7777777777777777**

" _(…) Below the foliage of the Great Forest of Tenmar,_

_Far far beneath, in the humus and under the roots,_

_Their ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep_

_The Lion Men sleep._

_There hath they lain for ages, and will lie_

_Until they answer the call of the Bokor._

_Great is their power, even greatest their anger,_

_And i__n roaring they shall rise and on the surface die. (…)"_

David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr", transcription of a traditional song on the Lion Men.

**7777777777777777**

The city of Torval glinted in the midday sun. The colourful standards emblazoned with the emblem of the city – half a sun – and hung from the highest buildings in the city flew and flapped in the wind.

The narrow streets echoed with excited conversations and exclamations of the massive crowd, which elbowed its way to the Great Plaza and the Kraal of Torval.

That day was to be memorable, it_ had_ to be. After all, it was not every day you had the opportunity to attend the crowing of the Khajiit Nation's new leader, the Incosi who would lead his people toward a bright future– Sha'ka of the Zuku tribe.

Considering the importance of the event, all the lords of Elsweyr from the _Imajaghans_ of the northern tribes to the_ Ubasis_ of the southern clans had come to Torval. Refusal to appear would have meant their immediate and painful death. The few leaders of small non-Khajiit communities in Elsweyr after the collapse of the Mane's reign had also been invited to join the festivities.

To impress the masses, the organizers had gone all out. A large range of the finest street entertainers from all over the country were staying in the city. Dunmer acrobats, Redguard sword swallowers, High Elves prestidigitators and Khajiit dancers mingled with the excitable crowd. In the Great Plaza before the Kraal, curiosities were ranged on display for the people, from a real werewolf in a cage, to a strange contraption, floating in the air several feet above the ground, and under which hung a basket large enough to accommodate a person.

Free food and drinks were distributed everywhere within the city – though no skooma, according to Sha'ka's new policy on the matter. Such courtesies were greatly appreciated by a population exhausted by months of internal turmoil…

For five days and five nights, the celebrations would continue. Five days and five nights, which were supposed to remain in the memories of those who witnessed them for years to come.

But if people were going to remember that moment, it would not be for the entertainers, the free refreshments, or anything else happening on the streets…

Very, _very_ far in the distance, a keen ear could have heard the echo of a muffled rumble of thunder, like the sound of rolling dice.

**7777777777777777**

"Yes."

"And thus, you understand, of course, that we had to respond to such a low blow, one which could have deteriorated the economic conditions necessary for the development of expanding agricultural endeavours and the delicate balance required for success in the export of saltrice."

"Right."

"So, we decided to…"

Focused on his explanation about the difficulties of establishing a culture of saltrice farming in southern Elsweyr, Caccia Spurrius, leader of Imperial community in Torval, did not notice the extreme and obvious boredom emanating from the figure standing by him. A figure strangely concealed under a thick brocade cloak, despite the extremely warm weather.

Count Janus Hassildor was not interested in agriculture, even though he generally made an effort to _seem_ interested. as it was a politico-economic subject, and usually a topic discussed by people who were thrilled at the prospect of chatting with the famous lord of Skingrad who-helped-Martin-Septim-and-who-defeated-Mannimarco.

Even if the 'chat' was limited to privations by wild animals, or whatever the man was babbling about.

But today, the famous lord of Skingrad who-helped-Martin-Septim-and-who-defeated-Mannimarco had other things on his mind, and did not feel like pretending concern he did not feel, merely for appearances' sake. So, he put himself in a state of deep thought, formulating automatic and monosyllabic comments while his real attention lay elsewhere.

"Ah." the Count replied mechanically when Spurrius' silence indicated the man expected an answer.

"Yes! And, obviously, they…"

A long sigh escaped from Hassildor's lips. The sound went unnoticed, covered by Spurrius' incessant babble as Hassildor tried to isolate himself more securely in his own thoughts.

None of which had anything to do with saltrice.

_What _am_ I doing here?_ the Count asked himself if he did not know…

Without paying attention, Hassildor started to swirl the contents of his glass – thick and sharp red wine which already had decimated the most of his taste buds – losing himself in the contemplation of the lapping and swirling liquid...

...and how _he_, Lord Janus Hassildor, a man reputed for wisdom, clear-sightedness and political ability, could have launched himself on such a hazardous adventure? How could he have accepted Chancellor Ocato's diplomatic suicide mission that even the least enlightened – to stay polite – members of the Elder Council had declined?

The Count heaved another sigh as he continued to observe his wine, lulled by Spurrius long-winded speech.

"_There's something else, isn't there…?"__ Ontus Vanin asked during their first night in the Kraal of Torval. __"All those stories about leaving Cyrodiil to avoid being victims of the political plots within the Council, they were all just lies, right?"_

And they were indeed _mainly_ lies. The Count was convinced some lies were safer than the naked truth, particularly when the truth in question could eventually become a state secret…

Hassildor had seen many strange and downright weird things in his existence, but _that_ surprised him beyond imagination. Surprised him so much he failed to react immediately, his brain steadfastly refusing to assimilate what he had seen – or rather, _smelled_. In addition, if his assumption was correct, there were far too many people in the Temple of the Two in the Imperial City to have risked an approach… In his glass, the wine began to whirl quicker and quicker.

Foolish. The Count had been _foolish_. Basing such a conclusion on simple doubt, on a suspicion relying on a vague likeness and a scent. All evidence was far too trivial and simplistic. Circumstantial at best. Usually, Hassildor knew he could trust his hyper-developed sense of smell, but not that evening. Not with the populace, the awful mix of incense, of perfumes of noble ladies and all the other smells emanating from a crowd packed in a closed space…

And Vanin, the only one who could confirm his suspicions, was as observant of people's faces as a blind man. The aging mage and had not been able to provide him with much information – except for a very intriguing and exciting detail…

The story could have stopped there if the Count had decided to ignore the incident.

But he had not. Because, whatever the fragrance may have been, it reminded him too strongly of a moment in the Imperial Prison, months ago, near two humid and cold cells reeking of fear and despair…

The Count closed his eyes for a moment, trying to chase away the unpleasant memories before opening them again.

When he really thought about it, all this ended up a matter of…_intuition_. Nevertheless, he had ruled the county of Skingrad long enough to learn one did not maintain a position at the top of the pyramid of power if one only listened to _reason_. Politics implied rationality, but also certain doses of instinct, and Hassildor's instinct was telling him he was _right_, just after the evening service in the Temple, to call to his informants, all of whom quickly indicated to their their rich employer that what he sought was heading straight to Elsweyr.

Why Elsweyr? He still had no clue. But with the trail getting cold, the Count chose to act swiftly. The issue was far too serious and secret to let one of his henchmen, how efficient, to take care of it. After all, if you wanted something done, better do it yourself, right?

Leaving Skingrad so abruptly would have attracted too much attention, which was where Chancellor Ocato's proposal came in, providing the Count an excellent reason to _go_ to Elsweyr and investigate from there…

Sadly, there was an element Hassildor had not taken into account in his equation—an extremely dangerous, unpredictable element. An element currently monopolising all his spare time since his arrival in Torval, continually delaying investigations on the _other _matter.

_Raksada. _

The Count was now twirling his glass so absently and so forcibly he spilled some of its contents. He swore under his breath, but fortunately, still absorbed in his monologue, Spurrius did not notice.

Hassildor shot a gloomy look at the liquid on the rug. The wine slowly spread along the soft surface, thick and dark as fresh _blood_…

The vampire's hand tightened on the cup. Despite his sparing use, his supplies were declining rapidly. If his mission in Elsweyr dragged on…Hassildor preferred to chase the thought away.

And speaking of 'dragging on', what the Oblivion were they _doing_…?

My lord!" exclaimed a voice from somewhere in the crowd exactly at the same time the Count formulated the question in his mind. The voice sounded like Aetherial music to the vampire's ears.

"Will you excuse me a minute, Master Spurrius?" the Count asked as politely as he could, leaving the irritating man there without further thought. He rushed toward a short plump silhouette, followed by a smaller, furrier one.

"At _last_…!" Hassildor complained, once near enough to Ontus Vanin and Furball that he needn't shout. "Why did you take so much time? Did something go wrong?"

"No my lord. Quite the contrary, I have excellent news." Vanin replied, smiling for a moment before his expression became shifty. "But Furball and I decided we should make a little detour to the well-stocked buffet over there…" The mage illustrated his words by producing a tray full of appetizers from beneath his robes, which he waved under Hassildor's nose. Furball barked happily, his breath reeking of salmon-avocado sandwiches.

The vampire rolled his eyes. "Do you think this is really the moment for…?"

"The rumours were correct, my lord." Vanin interrupted him, not giving the Count opportunity to start a long rant on the mage's careless attitude. "_He_ won't attend the ceremony. Actually _he_ has already left the Kraal." He added, scarfing down a handful of small sandwiches.

At these words, Hassildor's eyes widened in surprise. He quickly grabbed Vanin by the arm, making him drop the tray before dragging him to a quieter part of the room.

"Are you telling me Raksada won't be at Sha'ka's coronation?" the Count asked in an urgent whisper, cutting the mage's protests concerning all the good food spoiled on the ground.

"He left the palace a not long ago." The mage mumbled, shooting sideways glances at the appetizers spread on the pavement, which Furball was wolfing down enthusiastically. "From what I've heard, he has some urgent business to deal with, away from Torval."

Hassildor raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Something _urgent _enough to make him _leav_ethe palace, leave the _city_ on the very day Sha'ka becomes ruler of _all__ Elsweyr_?"

"Well, it is good for us, isn't it?" Vanin replied, shrugging. "Without him underfoot, we are free to carry out _our_ plans…" he shot a conspiratorial glance at Hassildor.

The Count started to chew his lower lip, obviously uncertain. "Does M'thunzi…?" he started, but Vanin interrupted him with a shake of his head.

"I did not manage to see her, my lord. She's currently attending the preparation of the coronation with Princess Naandi. It would have been too risky anyw…"

A sudden commotion interrupted their conversation. The Great Hall was quickly emptying, courtiers and guests hurrying towards the exits.

"Ah, looks like the ceremony is about to begin." Vanin observed calmly, as the excited crowd hurried past him. He turned toward the Count. "So, what do we do, my lord? No one will notice our absence in a crowd like that. And as Raksada is _gone_…"

Hassildor did not reply, glaring in front of him, worry etched in every line on his hidden face.

"I don't think we will ever have such an opportunity, my lord." Vanin pressed on. "And we promised M'thunzi we would help her to…"

"I know, I _know._" the vampire replied, angrily. "The thing is, we were _supposed_ to take action during tomorrow's procession in the city. I don't want to take action on a sudden impulse." His face darkened. "And we are not sure of finding anything incriminating Raksada in the plot against Sha'ka, anyway."

"M'thunzi is convinced the tower Raksada's building outside Torval hides something other than a weapon designed to resist any invasion from Cyrodiil." Vanin observed. "She spoke about plans…Raksada mentioned them to Sha'ka, apparently, but without ever showing them to him – probably to the Incosi's dismay."

"_I know_ what we are looking for!" Hassildor spat. "My _point_ is, do you really think he is going to leave them scattered around his secret lair for us to take?"

Vanin shot the Count a disarming smile. "Well, we will never know if we don't try, will we…?"

The Count clenched his jaw, annoyed at Vanin's dumb yet sensible remark. Indeed, such an opportunity would never happen again. Too bad for the initial plan carefully drawn up with M'thunzi…

"All right, let's go." Hassildor finally said, discreetly shepherding Vanin into a small adjacent corridor. "Furball, come here."

The little dog regretfully abandoned his appetizers and followed his master.

"An excellent choice, my lord." Vanin approved as they gave the slip to the rest of the guests. "Everything will go smoothly, you'll see. I already reconnoitred the corridor where Raksada's apartments are, and we will find elements in his lair to expose this vile traitor."

"May the Nines hear you…" the Count sighed. "What are you doing…?!"

The old mage had stopped and started to strip, to Hassildor's greatest horror. Thankfully, under his flamboyant set of robes, Vanin wore…

"Taddaaaa! In the interest of camouflage, black robes!" Vanin exclaimed proudly, turning about to allow the Count to admire the robes. "What? You don't like it?" he added when he saw the vampire's blank face.

"Master Vanin, for the Nines' sake, will you _try_ to understand that the art of camouflage consists of _adapting _one's appearance to _disappear_ into one's environment?"

Vanin raised a surprised eyebrow, looking down at his outfit. "So what? Black is the perfect colour for that, isn't it?"

"Oh, obviously. Particularly on a day like this." Hassildor hissed, recalling the wonderfully coloured outfits worn by courtiers and guests. "And to complete your 'perfect outfit', I suggest you add that wonderful face camouflage you used when you sneaked in the Imperial City with Martin Septim," he added acidly.

The last remark made Vanin baulk. "Am I sensing of sarcasm here? And my camouflage worked _perfectly well_ in the sewers, thank you very much."

"It certainly worked well on the _rats_ of the Imperial City." Hassildor replied, smiling, before his expression became serious again. "But the rats we have to deal with are another story…"

**7777777777777777**

An unusual silence hung in the throne room of the Kraal of Torval. A silence made even more remarkable by the fact the place was packed with people attending the coronation.

The audience was particularly attentive to what was happening given that, apart from times nearly forgotten, it was actually the first time a leader other than the Mane was anointed ruler of all Elsweyr. It was the kind of occasion one would not want to miss, and would take great pride in narrating to one's grandchildren later.

"Will you, O Sha'ka, promise to preserve peace within the country's borders?"

"I will." Sha'ka replied.

"_Bayete_!" the crowd exclaimed enthusiastically.

On high platform, Sha'ka knelt before his throne, surrounded by his closest advisors, his wife Naandi and the ubiquitous detachment of incorruptible bodyguards, the Amabuthos, the most feared warriors of Elsweyr, now the Virgins of Dagomey were gone.

A shaman stood before him, asking him a series of ritual questions, all equally ritualistic answers given by Sha'ka punctuated with anenthusiastic '_Bayete_' from the onlookers. These questions were the same ones traditionally asked of the Mane, with the religious references to Azurah and the divine origins of the power of the Mane removed…

"Will you, O Sha'ka, fight against injustice?"

"I will." Sha'ka was answering every single question without any sign of emotion, glaring straight ahead.

"_Bayete!"_

"Will you, O Sha'ka, promote justice and mercy?"

"I will."

"_Bayete!"_

"Will you, O Sha'ka, exterminate the enemies of our glorious nation?"

There, a thin smile appeared on the Khajiit's chops. "I will."

"_Bayete !"_

The old shaman motioned to a Khajiit standing nearby, holding a cushion upon which lay a simple crown, little more than a large ring of silver. The shaman took it delicately in his hands and drove it firmly on Sha'ka's head.

Then he turned toward the crowd, raising his arms toward the ceiling in a gesture of victory while, behind him, Sha'ka got up.

"People of Elsweyr, we have now a _king_!" the shaman exclaimed in a delighted voice. "_Bayete_, _Incosi_!"

"_Bayete_ _Incosi!_" echoed the crowd.

The cry was repeated three times before the audience fell completely silent again. With great care, Sha'ka, Incosi of Elsweyr walked up to the top of the stairs leading onto the platform, and prepared to pronounce his very first words as the official king of the Khajiit's land…

…when sarcastic claps rose in the air.

It was hard to determine the exact nature of clapping, but those were certainly sarcastic. _Very sarcastic._

All eyes turned toward the sound, as the audience started to murmur to one another, wondering who would dare to interrupt the ceremony.

A Khajiit was calmly making his way through the crowd toward Sha'ka. He was not much older than the new king, dressed simply in leathers pants, boots, with protective bracelets around his forearms. A few locks of hair – remaining of what used to be an abundant mane – were rising up from around his ears.

"Congratulations, _Incosi,_" said the Khajiit with a distasteful smirk. "That was a very moving ceremony. Did you organise it, or did that bunch of traitors help?" He nodded to the officials standing near Sha'ka.

A group of Amabuthos started to move towards the troublemaker, but Sha'ka stopped them with a wave of his hand. His face contorted into annoyance as he recognised the troublemaker. "_You…_"

**7777777777777777**

"It's _locked_."

"How surprising..." Hassildor replied, rolling his eyes. The Count, Vanin and Furball stood facing a magically sealed, colourful door outside Raksada's quarters. "Wasn't it the reason M'thunzi had not been able to investigate in person?"

Infiltrating the place had been easy. Most of the guards having left their posts, with or without authorisation, to attend the coronation ceremony. A chameleon spell took care of the rest, despite Vanin protestations he did not need one, thanks to his awesome camouflage. "Still, it doesn't look too complicated," the mage observed as he sent a scanning spell toward the lock. "Do you want to try my lord, or do you want me to take care of it?"

"You do it." Hassildor prompted.

Vanin frowned. Usually, the Count loved to take the initiative… "You sure you don't want to try?"

There was a silence during Vanin guessed Hassildor's face turned slightly red under the hood ."You don't know how to open magic locks, don't you?" Vanin asked mischievously, correctly interpreting the uneasy silence.

Hassildor opened and closed his mouth several times, but no sound came out of it. Finally, the embarrassing answer came. "No, I don't."

Vanin chuckled, highly amused by the situation. "Oh this is wonderful! You can use amazingly complicated spells like Dadisun's Expert Skinner or Macrina's Rain of Death but that you can't cast a single lock-picking spell?!"

The Count pursued his lips, vexed. "Do I need to remind you I received the education of a _knight._ Lock-picking was not part of the coursework. And all later arcane studies treated on more… _intellectual _subjects."

"Ah yes, I _do_ tend to forget you're an autodidact in magical arts." Vanin smiled as he bent toward the lock, performing a series of hexes on it.

"In addition, lock-picking spells are worthy of mere thieves, not of true gentlemen." the Count carried on, not ready to forget Vanin's remark. "Don't tell me you learned thievery at the Arcane University?" He snorted derisively. "I know the standards there are low, but there are limits…"

"Oh, I _did _learnit at the university, my lord. But not in the classroom." Vanin prattled happily as he worked. Each time a spell hit the lock, there was an audible _click_. "You see, there is something you've never been confronted with, while receiving your_ knightly_,_ intellectual, _and oh-so-solitary education…The driving objective of any self-respecting student…"

There was a "_clonk_" instead of a "_click_" and Vanin swore.

Hassildor sniggered again. "And that objective is…?"

"Getting into the girls' dormitory. Don't look so shocked, my lord. We all did that at least once in our student life!"

"I did not!" Hassildor snapped, offended.

"You should have. It offered a real challenge. Especially with that bastard Ocato—he was head supervisor at the time—patrolling the corridors. But believe me, it was worth it." Vanin's eyes clouded with happy memories. "Aaah yes. I picked many a lock in my younger days…"

"Given the silly expression on your face, I doubt we are still talking about the locks _on doors_ there…" the vampire commented dryly.

"Ah-_ah_!" Vanin exclaimed as the lock on the door opened with a final, definitive click, allowing the mage to avoid answering to his companion's insinuations. "Here we go!"

"Well done, Master Vanin." Hassildor patted the mage on the shoulder before pushing the doors open.

"Well, it was easy. Which is not comforting," the old Imperial observed in a low voice, as he and Furball followed the Count into a dark corridor. "I wonder if we should attribute this disturbing lack of security to Raksada's arrogance or to something else."

"Let's hope it's arrogance," Hassildor replied, putting a finger to his lips to signify his companion should fall silent.

The trio walked carefully along the long, dark corridor. The place was totally silent, but a strange smell lingered in the air, like the mix of hot wax and of rotten vegetation, even though no plants were visible. The end of the tunnel was filled with a diffuse, soft light.

"Someone should go check if it's clear." Vanin whispered, once they reached the edge of the light.

"Given how nosy we were when unlocking that door, I thought we would have been attacked by now…" the Count whispered back.

Nevertheless, both approached the end of the corridor and carefully peered into the room beyond. A room devoid of people, but full of...

"Mirrors. Dozens and dozens of mirrors…" Vanin whispered. "What the Oblivion…?!"

The room was lit only by a couple of candles, but it did not need better light, as the mirrors reflecting the light infinitely. The room was spacious, furnished with a stone semi-circular work surface in the middle of it. The stone "desk" – covered in booked, papers, alchemy ingredients and liquids boiling in stills – was engraved with complicated symbols, a few of which Vanin identified as mythological scenes featuring Daedra. But the motif which came back the most was a contorted theatre mask.

Several bottles containing strange specimens suspended in formalin, some of them apparently still alive, glared at the two intruders.

"Our Raksada is a collector it seems…" Hassildor observed, fascinated by the mirrors. He got closer to a particularly impressive full-length one made out of a bluish metal. Sparkles began to skate across the surface as he approached it.

"These things reek of magic." Vanin declared, materializing in the mirror, next to the blank spot where the Count's reflection should have appeared. "Amazing. It's as if Raksada accumulated all possible forms and designs of mirrors throughout history, and from all possible places."

"Hmmm…What kind of person would collect mirrors?" Hassildor asked dreamily as he examined another mirror, again devoid of his own reflection.

"Psychotic-and-egocentric-bastards-with-a-touch-of-narcerilism-and-a-deep-fear-of-death, I would say." Vanin replied, walking toward a cupboard, which he opened carefully.

Hassildor turned to face his companion. "What make you think that?"

"You have never studied the symbolism of mirrors, my lord? The myth of Narceril?**(1)**"

Hassildor shot the mage a blank look. "I know the story but – _Furball_!" he snapped when he spotted the dog, a leg raised in the air, ready to urinate on an interestingly shaped piece of furniture.

"Mirrors, as you know, reflect an exact copy of oneself, but inversed." The mage continued. "It symbolises the assertion of the ego – self-consciousness, if you prefer. But as inversing reality, it can also symbolise lies, duality, hidden personalities – without forgetting the stories about mirrors being doors opening on new worlds and so on…" Vanin stopped, letting out an appreciative whistle as he opened a cupboard. "And look at this amazing wardrobe!" he exclaimed, exploring its contents. "Only an egocentric arsehole would have so many outfits! He has good taste though. "

The Count coughed softly. "Master Vanin…" he motioned with his thumb toward the stone desk.

The mage sighed and dropped one of the robes he had taken out of the cupboard, returning to the task at hand of helping his friend to search the place.

"What are we looking _for_ exactly?" Vanin asked as he lifted a pile of books to check the papers under them.

"As I said before, that's the problem." Hassildor opened several of the massive drawers, rummaging around each them in turn. "I am not sure what these plans look like. Just try to identify anything unusual." The vampire paused when he realised they were standing in Raksada's sanctuary, a man who could survived being crushed by a ton of rocks and who lived surrounded by magic mirrors. "Well, 'unusual' in the sense 'more unusual than the usually unusual'."

"Right."

The two men continued searching in a concert of crumpling papers and happy 'whiffs' as Furball offered his two septims, sniffing happily in the drawers his master was opening.

Hassildor was disappointed. He thought Raksada would have better organizational skills. The drawers were an impossible mess, filled with a mix of books, bits of parchment, quills, alchemic ingredients and a multitude of little boxes full of magic trinkets.

"It worst than Bravil's flea market," the Count complained, as he unenthusiastically opened the seventeen box, which was bigger and more ornately decorated than the others. He ruffled its contents indifferently with his forefinger.

And his heart stopped.

Or rather, would have stopped if a vampire's heart still beat.

A strange mix of emotions rose in Hassildor's chest as he gaze, mouth agape, at a too-familiar particular piece of jewellery. A blend of excitement and happiness mingled with anguish. It was just _there_, tangled with the rest, as if it did not matter…

How could have it landed here? How Raksada got its filthy hands on it? How…?

The Count took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Those questions would get their answers later. For the moment, the Count was satisfied this excursion might not prove wholly fruitless.

"Sorry, my lord." Vanin frowned curiously at Hassildor. "You were saying…?"

"Hmmm, nothing,." the vampire replied, hurriedly closing the box, but not before snatching the single most valuable item in the jumble, which he slipped discreetly into a pocket. "Have you found anything?"

"I think so. Come over here…"

Intrigued, Hassildor abandoned the explorations of the drawers and got near his friend.

"It seems our friend Raksada is still playing with dolls." Vanin pointed at something on one of the shelves.

The vampire narrowed his eyes and gingerly lifted the object free of its shelf.

It was indeed a doll, a small representation of a dark-furred Khajiit, made out of rags, mud, wax and wood, stuck with needles. Closer inspection revealed strange symbols engraved with great precision.

Even though he had never met him in person, the Count recognised the figure. "Sha'ka," he said darkly. No doubts either, that the doll was magic, even though the energy emanating from it was subtle.

Vanin nodded in agreement, taking more dolls from the shelves. "And there are others…This one is, without a doubt, Princess Naandi – it doesn't seem active though. But my favourites are _these_…"

As he spoke, the mage produced a series of three dolls – the first was tall, thin and cloaked, the second was chubby and wore a colourful set to robes and the last one was so hairy it looked like a bit of fluff.

"Raksada certainly has an eye for details." Hassildor began examining the puppet representing himself. Its tiny red-jewel eyes glared unseeingly at him, its face sporting a fixed smile ornamented with two tiny fangs.

"He even made one for Furball." Vanin replied, speaking over a disapproving, angry bark came from the ground. "Our dolls, like Naandi's, don't appear active. But Sha'ka's is."

Hassildor frowned, putting the doll back on its shelf. "What exactly do you mean by _active_?"

"These are what we call 'dagydes' in Cyrodiil, my lord. They're not regarded as anything but spook stories in our culture." Vanin explained, looking with some disgust at the dolls. "From what I've read in Doctor Deadstone's '_Out of Elsweyr_', they're called_ wangas_. Foodoo dolls. Regardless of what you choose to call them, the purpose remains the same. The doll, composed of some element related to a person – hair, nails, bits of clothes, things like that. Once enchanted, the doll creates a sort of link between itself and the individual it represents. This link can then be used to cast spells on the victim, or can even be used to influence him or her…"

Hassildor flashed a smile. "You know, one day, I really shall have to read that book." The Count grabbed the five tiny dolls, stuffing them unceremoniously into a pocket of his cloak. "And if what you say is true, I think we have found proof of Raksada's treachery."

"So, we're done searching for the plans then?"

"Well, I think we…" Hassildor stopped, his eyes something unusual. "What is this? Have you examined this, master Vanin?"

The Count was pointing at a miniature pyramid made, apparently, out of silver crystal. "A box of orichalcum?"

Of the four faces of the strange pyramid, two were blank. The other sporting two symbols, on one face, a pair of scales with its two plates perfectly balanced, on the other, a star with seven branches with an open eye in the centre.

"Look my Lord! These are symbols of the Apocrypha!" Vanin exclaimed softly, pointing at the star as Hassildor took the box from its shelf. "Could it be that Raksada is working with Hermaeus Mora…?"

"I doubt it. I'd rather think he 'borrowed' this from the Daedric Prince of Knowledge. Without that Prince's consent." The vampire turned the pyramid in his hands, examining the object from all angles. At the bottom of the face ornamented with the balance was a series of seven buttons which intrigued him. "What do these things do?" he mumbled.

"May I?" Vanin asked, snatching the pyramid from the Count's hands, and started pressing the buttons at random.

"Master Vanin, you really shouldn't…" Hassildor warned.

With a slow creak, the four faces of the pyramid opened out. Vanin shrieked in surprise, throwing the artefact onto the desk, where it finished opening, forming a square surrounded by four triangles.

It was totally empty.

Vanin and Hassildor exchanged glances.

"Please remember," the mage started, shaking a finger at his friend, "that if anything bad happens, it was _your_ idea to come to Elsweyr."

Hassildor's snappy reply never got past his throat. A line of blue energy ran along the edges of the pyramid, focusing at points the triangles. With a growing buzz, four lines of energy flashed in the air to meet just above the centre of the square, forming a white ball of light as big as a baby's head.

"Er…Do you think it's safe, my lord?" Vanin asked warily, glaring at the energy ball floating in the air.

"Given nothing has exploded, and that we're still alive – more or less – I would tempted to say yes…"

The ball of light divided into nine tiny ones, all of which began to move, one six ringing the seventh, the final two taking positions above and below the encircled ball. Once positioned, each sphere shifted into a symbol.

The first with red ankh superimposed over the symbol alpha, quickly followed by an orange hourglass, then three arrows each indicating one of the main spatial direction, two green six-sided dice, a blue book with its pages covered in cryptic signs accompanied by a quill, and finally a purple scythe superimposed over the omega symbol.

Hassildor and Vanin gazed at the spectacle, mesmerised.

"Vanin…?" the Count whispered as if he feared talking too loudly might break the charm.

The old mage waved him to stay silent, as the last three lights changed.

The sphere at the top of the circle turned into two white parallel lines, while the one at the bottom became a grey circle bristling with eight arrows, pointing in every direction. The central ball of energy, it transformed into a golden and azure stable balance.

"The Seal of the Multiverse…?" Hassildor asked again, louder this time, his eyes still riveted on the display of symbols floating before him. "But… Master Vanin, what does it mean?"

"I don't know my lord, but it is magnificent!" the mage replied in a low voice, his eyes filled with wonder as he contemplated the complicated designed. "Look, they are all there!" he continued, pointing in turn at the sign in the order of their materialisation. "The Great Elders! The Laws of the Multiverse! Here is Matter, or Life as it is more generally called by scholars, symbolised by the superposition of the old Elsweyrian symbol of life, the Ankh and the Aldmer letter Alpha, then Time by followed Space with its three main dimensions, Chance, Destiny and Death, the Ultimate End – which some may call Sithis. Up there, Law while down there Chaos…"

"… and in the middle, the Cosmic Balance." the vampire finished. "I know all that, Master Vanin, as well as any well educated scholar. My question is, what does Raksada intend to do with something related to the Multiverse? Do you think he may be linked one way or another to one of the Great Elders?"

"I doubt it, my lord. Contrary to popular belief, the Great Elders are not gods," Vanin explained with a sniff, as the symbols merged to form a simple ball of light again.

"Some may disagree with you," the Count observed calmly, knowing Vanin could get touchy on the subjects of religion and beliefs. "The Dark Brotherhood…"

"…are a bunch of_ morons_!" Vanin spat. "There are no such things as "Great Elders". We call them such, but they're just allegories, representing the great principles that rule over the functioning of the Multiverse. Sithis is no exception to the rule!"

"Allegories or not, I would like to know why Raksada has in his possession something which seems to contain some element of information regarding the Multiverse." Hassildor growled.

In front of them, still floating in the air, the ball of light split up again in a dozens of tinier ones which starting to zigzag in the air in parallel columns, forming a series of numerous and extremely complicated symbols.

"What, this _again_?" Hassildor sighed. He liked magic as well as mind games, but only in moderation.

"It looks like a code." Vanin noted, scratching his chin as he looked at the phosphorescent signs which continued scrolling before his eyes. "Look, my lord. Some elements seem to come back over and over again…"

"And every code has a conversion table." The Count bit his lower lip, as he always did when worried or concentrating. "Look for papers with the sign of Apocrypha or the Cosmic Balance on them."

Vanin complied at once. It did not much time take much time for him to find what he was looking for.

"Look at this, my lord." The mage waved several pieces of paper, as well as a book, under the Count's nose. The papers were all covered in neat writing, as well as some of the symbols from the pyramid's sequence. Stuffing the papers into the Count's hand, Vanin opened the book, and showed the first pages to Hassildor. There were a few familiar symbols, but mostly what looked like architectural plans.

Vanin turned a few more pages, before pointing at something on one of them. "Doesn't this drawing remind you of something?"

"Oh yes, it certainly does…" the Count whispered, as he glared as at artist's view of what looked like the tower currently being built outside Torval. "Well done, master Vanin! But, by Julianos…" he then moaned. "It's going to take us weeks to decipher all this!"

"Yes, and don't count on me to give you a hand there." Vanin prompted. "I hate riddles."

Hassildor rolled his eyes. "Instead of spouting stupidities, please continue to look around, will you?" Hassildor returned his attention to the plans, squinting as if it could help him decipher them. "It may take a while before I can figure out if this can be of any help to us…"

"As you wish." Vanin shrugged, looking nonchalantly at the shelves before his eyes fell on the wardrobe he tried to explore earlier. "Hmmm, maybe I should check the pockets of Raksada's clothes, just to make sure he doesn't hide notes for his evil plans in them?"

Vanin walked resolutely toward the wardrobe, followed by Furball, and started to search into it until he found an outfit to his liking.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest one of all?" Vanin murmured, making silly and exaggerated poses in front of one of the mirrors, holding one of Raksada's outfits he had taken from the wardrobe up to see if it suited him.

"Vanin, if you can't be serious, would you _please __be silent_? I'm trying to concentrate…" Hassildor snarled, his eyes riveted on the book of symbols.

"Er… Janus…" Vanin called in a feeble voice.

"_Wha_…?!" the Count he turned angrily, his snarl dying abruptly.

Vanin still stood before the mirror, holding a ridiculous pose and a set of luridly coloured robes. His face, however, was frozen in an expression of terrified disbelief. When Hassildor looked from the mage into the mirror, he understood why.

Instead of Vanin's plump silhouette, stood the slender, blue-skinned figure of a Dunmer with long curly hair.

"_What __the Oblivion are you doing here!?"_ shrieked the reflection, gazing thunderstruck at Vanin and Hassildor.

"By the Nines, it's Raksada!" Vanin yelled, dropping the outfit to the ground.

"_What are you doing in here?! How did you get in?"_ Raksada's reflection demanded, still looking flabbergasted. "_How _dare_ you to come in here?! You _wait_ until I warn_ him_…!"_

"Vanin!" Hassildor shouted. "Don't stand there like a moron! Try to deactivate it!"

The mage recovered from his surprise with a startled blink, then grabbed his staff and raised it above its head. "Right!"

"No Vanin! _No!_ Not like _that_!" Hassildor sprang forward to stop the mage.

But the old Imperial had already vehemently slammed his staff into the mirror, shattering the glass into hundreds of tiny pieces. It exploded from its frames, shards dropping to the ground all around the room, clinking on the ground in a crystalline rain of musical sound.

The room became silent again as Vanin turned toward the Count with a triumphant expression on his face. An expression which quickly disappeared when the reflection reappeared, its face visible in the thousands of shards strewn across the floor and in all the intact mirrors on the walls of the room.

Hassildor shot a desperate look at the Vanin, shaking his head.

"Oooops…" Vanin said with a horrified grin.

With one malicious look, all the reflections opened their mouths and let out a unanimous scream.

"_ALEEEEEEEEEERT_!"

**7777777777777777**

"Not bad… Not bad at all."

Arms crossed behind his back, Bombassa stood up on the tips of his toes before falling back on his heels, a very satisfied look on his face as he admired the ranks before him.

"All right! Atten-_shun_!" the Redguard barked. In a wonderful harmonious whole, the troop stood to attention. "Well ladies, isn't that _bloody_ neat?" he asked, turning around, his dark face illuminated by an ecstatic smile.

Standing behind him, Urzob gave him a blank.

Anirne's face twitched in anger. "When you're done clowning around," she snarled curtly, "We should go over plans prior to departing for Corinthe."

"Aaah, relax Anirne! We ran through the check list_ ten_ _times_ already." Bombassa waved dismissively. "Look, our men are ready, fully equipped and Ralentu's Spider of Doom is operational now."

Standing behind the soldiers, the Spider of Doom, as impressive as ever, raised a leg in the air shaking it in a friendly way at the three mercenaries.

Anirne winced. "I am not sure Raksada is going to appreciate Ralentu's gadget."

"It depends if he heard what happened with the last ones…" Urzob groaned.

Bombassa gave his lieutenants a cunning smile. "Don't _worry_ about that! I'm sure Raksada's going to love it. And in any case, as the great leader I am, my awesome diplomacy skills will help me find the right words to convince him."

Anirne rolled her blind eyes, while Urzob looked up in the sky, where the sun was already high. "I hope so, because he is going to be here _very_ _soon,_" the Orc pointed out.

"_He_ is _already _here," replied a cold voice on their right.

His face sporting a forced smile, Bombassa turned, greeting Raksada with a deep bow.

Or rather, the Redguard supposed he was greeting the Dunmer. Because the silhouette – mounted on the biggest Senche-raht Bombassa had ever seen – was covered head to foot in armor. Something Bombassa found rather inappropriate, given the terrible heat that beating down on them at the moment.

That set of armour was incredibly strange. Despite his extensive knowledge of the different metals used by armourers in Tamriel, Bombassa could not identify what comprised Raksada's. It looked like a strange mix of silver and gold…

But more than the armour, it was the impressive spear – or rather, trident – the Dunmer across his back that caught Bombassa's attention. Made of the same metal as the armour, the weapon radiated malice and enchantment.

"Oh, _Ubasi_, what a pleasant surprise…!" Bombassa said in a forced voice, forgetting his metallurgic considerations.

"It shouldn't be. We agreed to meet here, at this time, you moron." Raksada checked his Senche irritably.

In a fluid movement the Dark Elf removed his helmet, letting his long dark hair cascade down his shoulders and along his back. At the sight, Urzob gave an appreciative sigh. At the sound, Bombassa tried not to look Aetheriusward. Despite being a dangerous bastard, Raksada was a sexy dangerous bastard, which had a marked effect on the female sex.

"Is everything ready for our departure to Corinth?" the Dark elf demanded.

"Er, yes, yes, _Ubasi_, as you can see." Bombassa swept his arm expansively towards the company still standing silently at attention.

Raksada dismounted his Senche with unexpected grace for someone wearing full armour—to another sigh from behind Bombassa. Frowning, Dunmer started to review the troops, his red eyes running up and down each and every man. Most of them cowered somewhat under his scrutiny, until Raksada's attention finally fell on the Spider of Doom, shining gloriously in the sun behind the ranks.

"That _thing_? _Again_?" Raksada asked, with a smile to rival that of a piranha, pointing at the Spider.

"Well, _Ubasi_, allow me to introduce you to…" The Redguard hesitated, feeling Anirne and Urzob's eyes riveted on the back of his neck, "… the Spider of Doom."

The declaration was welcomed by a cold silence.

"It is a mechanic Spider of er, Doom… and it… can… kill people."

The cold silence became even colder.

"So much for your awesome diplomacy." Anirne hissed at Bombassa's back, giving him a vicious but discreet kick in the calf.

The Redguard winced.

"The Spider of Doom, is it?" Raksada continued examining the mechanical bug warily.

The Spider winked at him.

"Er…yes." Bombassa squeaked.

"Is it dangerous?"

Bombassa had a cough. "Oh, it _definitely_ is, _Ubasi_."

"Better not specify for _whose side _it's dangerous…" Urzob growled.

"Can it kill a lot of people? In very painful ways?" Raksada carried on.

The Redguard frowned. What kind of question was that...? "Well, I guess it can."

"Hmmm…" the Dark Elf looked thoughtful.

Bombassa exchanged a worried glance with Urzob.

The Dunmer's face brightened with one of the creepiest smiles Bombassa had seen in his whole life. "I love it!" Raksada cackled. "I can't wait to see it in action!"

At the words, the Spider of Doom started to clap enthusiastically with its front legs.

"Ralentu!" Bombassa shouted. "Stop making such a fuss!"

"Huh, sorry Bombassa," Ralentu replied from the Spider.

Raksada planted his hands on his hips, considering the troops. "If everything's ready, I suggest we leave soon as…"

"Melee meep!"

Everybody looked at Raksada or more precisely at one of the little leather pouches hanging from his belt, from which the strange sound seemed to issue.

"Excuse me a second will you?" the Dunmer muttered, walking away from the assembled mercenaries. He took out his powder compact and flicked it.

"What is it this time…?" he started, but could not finish his question as the reflection in the tiny mirror opened its mouth wide...

"_ALEEEEEEEEEERT_!"

**7777777777777777**

"J'Ghasta." Sha'ka growled as he watched J'Ghasta walking toward the stairs leading to the throne. Heedless of any form of propriety, J'Ghasta made a point of pushing past the Amabuthos who were standing in his way. The guards looked at Sha'ka, for an order to intervene, but the order never came. "_J'Ghasta_. After all this time…"

The audience began to whisper, the people at the back starting to jump, in hopes of getting a better view.

"You don't really seem surprised to see me, Sha'ka," J'Ghasta observed calmly, stopping just short of Sha'ka. Around him, the Amabuthos moved, forming a half circle, ready to intervene if necessary.

Sha'ka gave a smile wholly devoid of humour. "I was certain one day you'd bring your moth-eaten hide back to Elsweyr." His smile widened. "Time has not been kind with you, _igwala_. Is the lack of mane on your head the result of a malediction by the Mane for failure to comply with the Manecision? Or is it simply old age?"

The jibe was welcomed by soft giggles from the advisors and nobles sitting near Sha'ka.

"Maledictions are for superstitious morons," J'Ghasta smiled, revelaing all his teeth. "And I'm fine, thanks, even if my success can't quite equal yours. You _have_ done well, haven't you?" The Khajiit motioned expansively to the room in which they stood. "A cosy little house, a lot of morons licking your boots and…" his eyes stopped on Naandi who was still standing at her husband's side, "a nice curvy bit of fluff."

The Princess reacted as if something stung her, tensing up, the fur along her spine bristling. Sha'ka did not react, merely laid an appeasing hand on her shoulder. After giving J'Ghasta a murderous look, she slowly sat back down. Her eyes, however, remained fixed malevolently upon him, as though she could kill him with glares alone.

"Destiny has been generous to me," Sha'ka admitted.

J'Ghasta sniggered. "Destiny? _Treachery_ I'd say. Apparently, it pays well to bite the hand that feeds you. And here you are, occupying the seat of Mane Thenj'Iwe, who...what was it you used to say about him? Who was 'like a second father' to you? And then, you went and betrayed him. Great basis for a regime."

The nobles standing around the throne exploded in outraged protestations, insulting J'Ghasta loudly, while the crowd began to whisper. For the first time, a shadow passed over Sha'ka's face. "What do you want, _igwala_?" he spat.

J'Ghasta crossed his arms over his chest, raising his chin with a defiant gleam in his eyes. "I demand _Ukulwa_."

A clamour rose above the whispers echoing in the throne room at the challenge.

Sha'ka gave a sceptical laugh. "_Ukulwa_…The fight of Chiefs? You're an ambitious one, aren't you? Is it my throne you want?"

"No. _I_ want revenge. Your head's just a bonus." J'Ghasta retorted. "I have the right to make the challenge. And you have the _obligation_ to answer it."

"You are a fugitive, an exile. _Igwala: _not of the people." Sha'ka growled, putting as much spite into the insults as he could. "Under the laws of Elsweyr you do not _exist_. You cannot make such a challenge."

"I was _igwala_ under the Mane's law," J'Ghasta replied calmly. "But there's no Mane now, is there? Just some...'Incosi', is it? No Mane, no exile. No exile, no _igwala_ and I become a normal citizen again."

This time, the clamour filled the Throne room. Sha'ka's advisors leaned close together, talking animatedly while their king and J'Ghasta observed one another like the cats they were, silently and for a long while.

"I accept the challenge." Sha'ka finally declared loudly, falling into the ritual preface almost at once. "Let _Ukulwa _decide the matter."

An excited buzz ran through the spectators. Naandi gave her husband a surprised look, while Sha'ka's advisors suddenly fell still, worried.

"Ah, old Thenj'Iwe would be so proud of you…" J'Ghasta commented sarcastically, ignoring the proper forms of courtesy before the rite.

"I am not guilty of any act against our beloved Mane. Thenj'Iwe's blood is not on my hands!" Sha'ka declared in a strong voice, calling upon the audience as witnesses, raising his hands as if to show them clear of blood.

J'Ghasta's sneered disgustedly. "Traitor…and now _liar_."

"Er, do you think it wise, O Incosi?" the advisor closest to Sha'ka murmured, voicing the common concern of the nobles on the platform. "It would be far simpler to have the guards dispose of him. Whatever he says, he is still _igwala_, you needn't accept the challenge. If you should lose…"

"I will not be portrayed as a coward in front of all Elsweyr!" the Incosi snarled, rudely pushing his advisor away and still looking at J'Ghasta. "I won't lose. I beat him once, I'll beat him _again_." No one doubted Sha'ka meant to ensure J'Ghasta would not survive a second time.

Slowly and theatrically, Sha'ka dropped his royal ornaments and jewellery, letting them land in a heap on the ground. The audience fell silent again. Then, the Khajiit slowly approached J'Ghasta. The assassin shot the king a sardonic smile, and the king smiled humourlessly back, before both prowled to the main floor.

"Make us room!" Sha'ka exclaimed, even as the onlookers drew back, giving the two men room. "Let _Ukulwa_ begin!"

**7777777777777777**

"Master Vanin, you have as much subtlety as a minotaur in an Akaviri porcelain shop!" roared Hassildor as he, the mage and Furball – tucked under the Count's arm – raced from Raksada's private apartment and rushed along the main corridor. "Why did you break those darn mirrors!?"

"Well, it seemed a good idea on the time…" Vanin wheezed.

"Well, it_ wasn't_!"

"Did you manage to grab everything you needed, my lord?"

Hassildor patted his cloak, his hand finding the pyramidal object and papers. "I did." He narrowed his eyes at the mage, who giggled embarrassedly.

"Hey, what's going on here?"

Two guards, alerted by the screams, had just popped up in front of the fleeing trio which stopped abruptly.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the guard again. He winced, covering his ears with one of his paws as a particularly high-pitched "_Aleeeeert_" echoed from behind Hassildor and Vanin, the pitch so shrill he thought it might make his eardrum explode. "And what are those _screams_?!"

"Hey, tell your dog to stop snarling at me…!" complained the second guard.

Hassildor's brain raced, trying to work out an explanation for their presence here. An explanation he did not find.

Instead, the Count recited a quick invocation. As the sound of air being sucked up filled the corridor, the Count extended his hands before of him, palms opened. The guards found themselves flying across the hall before they slammed bodily into the opposite wall. They hit ground in a chorus of dull thuds, motionless.

"And _I'm_ supposed to be the brute?" the mage exclaimed as they started running again. "You _killed_ them!"

"Oh, please! I just knocked them out." the vampire protested. "What was I supposed to do? Pretend Raksada invited us to his quarters for tea?"

"That might have worked, actually!" Vanin retorted. "Because we've just attacked a pair guards who were only doing their jobs!"

"We were trespassing in the private quarters of what could be one of _the_ most powerful sorcerers on Nirn! I can't think of anything worse than that!"

There sound of dozens of sandaled feet running heralded the approach of the twenty-odd guards materialising on the other side of the corridor, lead by a livid Raksada.

"_You!_" Raksada exclaimed, surprised as he gazed disbelieving at Hassildor and Vanin. "I should have guessed!"

"You could not think of anything worst, eh my lord?" Vanin asked between gritted teeth, cowering instinctively behind Hassildor. "What do you think of _this_?"

"Didn't _you_ tell me he was _gone_?" Hassildor demanded angrily, taking a step back as well. "Let me congratulate you for the accuracy and quality of the information you gathered, Master Vanin!"

Raksada's angry expression shifted slowly to a very nasty smile, as he walked resolutely toward the two men and the dog. "I never imagined you would be _so_ _stupid_." He sniggered malevolently. "Riflingthrough my personal quarters…and thinking you could get away with it? The sun here in Elsweyr must have melted your brains!"

"I admit it was the not the cleverest idea we ever had..." Vanin whispered, clutching his staff nervously.

"Stop where you are, Raksada!" the Count demanded, putting so much authority in his tone the Dunmer complied – to Raksada's own surprise.

But he recovered quickly. "Who are you to give _me _orders_,_ Count? We are _not_ in Skingrad! We are not even in _Cyrodiil_!" Raksada snarled. "Guards! Seize those men! They are spies sent by the Elder Council!"

The guards began to advance menacingly toward the two men – though they also threw worried looks at Furball whom the Count had put down, and who was now yipping fiercely in their direction.

Hassildor and Vanin exchanged a quick glance.

"Time for a diversion…" the Count whispered.

Vanin gave a wicked smile. "Right."

With amazing speed for someone of his physique – leaving Raksada and his men no time to react – the mage stepped out from behind Hassildor, twirling his staff in the air. Bringing it swishing down to point at the floor, a large white ball of light rose out of the stonework, shimmering softly as it drifted to shoulder height.

"Run!" Vanin yelled to his companions.

The scene became complete confusion. Within seconds of Vanin's shout, the ball crashed forcibly to the ground with the sound of shattering mirrors, sickly cold cloud rising into the air from the ruins, filling the corridor and blinding the attackers. The hall echoed with many curses, uttered in different languages, but the general trend gravitated towards things like, "I can't see anything", "That's my tail you moron!", but the most frequent was "Crap, it's freezing here!".

Finally, the icy frog dissipated. An extremely angry Raksada, covered in frost, emerged from it, followed by those of the guards who were not cowering on the floor, shivering.

"Bombassa! Go after them with your men and the rest of the guards!" the Dunmer yelled to the Redguard, who had just arrived at his side, teeth chattering from the cold. "They must not escape! Stop them at _all costs_!"

**7777777777777777**

The atmosphere in the throne room was tense with expectancy. The centre of the room, now quite empty with the onlookers crowding close together, now sported a big circle sketched in red chalk, around which the audience stood packed shoulder to shoulder, the better to take in the tableau in the middle of the circle.

In the crowd, three particular individuals were taking more attention to the scene than the others…

"What's going on, now?" Lucien Lachance asked a dark furred-Khajiit standing by his side and whose face was almost entirely covered in ritual scarified marks.

Mudli, the Master Assassin of Senchal SyndiCat, shot the Imperial a scornful look –something to which Lucien was so used, he hardly noticed. "Sha'ka has accepted J'Ghasta's challenge, the shaman, there, is explaining the rules of _Ukulwa_. So no one can 'forget'." Mudli grudgingly explained.

"And those rules are…?"

"…_very simple._ Even a stupid hairless, motherless ape like you can understand them very easily." Mudli sniggered. "You see the red circle? The first one who crossed it, either because he is pushed out, thrown out, or flees, loses. The winner the one still in the circle, and still _alive_ at the end of the fight."

Lucien turned his attention back to Sha'ka and J'Ghasta, both of whom were – or appeared to be – listening to the shaman. People around the circle were quietly starting to place bets, and he would have given a lot to know what odds were... He turned back to Mudli.

"You just can't wait to see J'Ghasta get killed by Sha'ka, can you?" Lucien observed in a tone of feigned unconcerned. "Even if it means Ya'Tirrje's plans will be thwarted."

"Bah, Ya'Tirrje will survive it. Or not." Mudli shrugged. "Doesn't really matter how the fight ends, anyway." Khajiit ran his tongue on his chops.

Lucien looked away, degusted, reaching up to absentmindedly scratched the back of Polly's head as the bird, perched on his shoulder as usual, began to nibble at his earlobe for attention.

Their troop arrived in Torval the night before and, to Lucien's great surprise, Mudli had not made any further attempts on his life, or on J'Ghasta's, after failing to get them trampled to death by panicked wildebeest. Lucien's killer instincts were all clamouring at him that something was wrong. Starting with Sha'ka's reaction to J'Ghasta's challenge.

The assassin expected the king to look at least mildly surprised at the sight of an old foe returned home after such a long period of time. But no. At best, the Khajiit looked rather annoyed, but certainly not surprised. Almost as if he was…

Lucien's eyes widened in shock.

"_Ya'Tirrje will survive it. Or not. Doesn't really matter how the fight ends, anyway__."_Lucien turned toward Mudli again, but the Khajiit was no longer there. Lucien quickly scanned the crowd, but none of the faces around him sported Mudli's scars.

"Fog." Lucien called to Fog Marley, who was standing on his other side.

The Khajiit did not look at him, eyes half-closed in a frowning pout. Since losing his skooma supply, the Rastajiit hardly uttered a word – much less two or three strung together. Lucien initially thought this unresponsiveness a side-effect of coming off the drug, but J'Ghasta promptly disabused him of the notion. Then, J'Ghasta went so far as to confide very quietly that he hoped they would find skooma soon, because he did _not_ want to be around Fog when the _real _withdrawal started…

"Fog!" Lucien grabbed the Rastajiit by the arm, giving him a sharp shake which whipped Fog around like a rag doll, and with about as much effect. "Where is Mudli?"

"Uh?" Fog shot him an unconcerned look, shrugged, then slouched morosely. "Gone."

"Where!?" Lucien barked in his face, causing nearby spectators to gaze at him, but This jostling brought Fog out of this lethargy.

"Dunno." The Khajiit blinked slowly. "Maybe...he left to give instructions to his guards? He's got them placed all around the room, you know. Why?"

"Listen! We need to warn J'Ghasta – we've got to stop this…"

A sudden roar from the crowd made both jump. Lucien's eyes slid unwillingly to the centre of the room.

Too late.

_Ukulwa_ had started, and would finish only with the death of a fighter.

**7777777777777777**

"I recognise this part of the palace! We're almost to the main exit!" Vanin exclaimed, his face red as a tomato, sweat streaming along his temples from his efforts to keep running. Most inhabitants of the Kraal were attending the ceremony, so apart from a few guards – who had no clue as of yet what was going on – their escape attempt went relatively unhampered. "A little more effort…all we need to do... is get to our carriage...and drive away...as quickly as…Lord Hassildor?"

Vanin stopped, realizing he could no longer hear the footsteps of his companion over his own laboured breathing.

The Count had stopped a few meters behind him, Furball at his ankles, gazing back down at the corridor they had just sprinted along.

Slowly, the vampire took his hood off. Standing in the shade, he was not risking much, but his pale skin began taking on a redder hue than usual. The Count turned toward his companion. "No Ontus, we won't shake them off." Hassildor said, in a resigned voice.

"But we're almost there my lord!"

"We'll split up here." Hassildor ignored the mage's remark. "I will hold them off, while you are escape."

Vanin looked flabbergasted. "What _are_ you talking about?!"

For an answer, the Count reached into his cloak, producing the pyramid and the notes stolen from Raksada's room. "Take these with you. Hide them in a safe place. I think this 'Mama Sam' we've heard about may be able to help you." The vampire's eyes then fall upon his dog. "Take Furball with you."

The dog gave a sharp yelp, his ears flattening as he growled.

"No." Vanin said, refusing to take the objects, but Hassildor forced them into his hands.

"You must decipher them at all costs," the vampire continued in a voice devoid of emotion past grim resignation. "We _must_ find out what Raksada is up to, if we are to put an end to this madness. M'thunzi was right. It is not only Elsweyr which is in danger, but the whole Empire. Maybe more…"

"No." Vanin repeated, a bit louder this time. Under the Count's unusually stern gaze, the mage grudgingly hid the stolen objects in his robes.

"I am going to keep the Foodoo dolls." Hassildor's voice was still casual, as if he was giving a to-do list for his household back at Castle Skingrad. "I will try to escape from Raksada. If I'm successful, I shall continue on, and unmask him before Sha'ka."

"No," the mage's voice grew stubborn and angry. "Janus, are you listening to me…?!"

"There is something else I need to tell you before we part. The _real_ reason I decided to…"

"_No!_" the mage barked, grabbing the Count by the front of his cloak. The move was so unusual, coming from the old man who had always shown such respect to Hassildor, it took the latter completely by surprise. "Stop this ridiculousness _right now_! We're losing precious time, while you chatter away about your…!"

"Sigrid Trencavel is alive."

In the sudden silence, one could have heard a pin dropped.

Vanin blinked and released his grip on the Count. "What?"

"They must have gone that way!" Raksada's excited voice echoed, hopefully far away. "This leads to the main gates!"

"I don't have the time to explain, there are many details which remain unclear to me." Hassildor stuffed something into Vanin's hand. "Like how _this_ ended up in Raksada's possession."

Vanin opened his hand. In his palm lay a necklace, the pendant in the shape of a flower. Belladonna. His eyes widened. "This is…"

"_Her_ necklace, yes. The one that which first belonged to Vicente Valtieri, and before him to Rivanone Trencavel." Hassildor confirmed.

Vanin continued gazing at the ornament with eyes like saucers. He recognised the thing – how could he not? It was unique enough not to be confused with anything else. The problem was, last time he way it, it had hung around the neck of Sigrid Trencavel – or more precisely, hung around the neck of her _dead body, _as the was being carried down the White Tower by that bastard assassin…

"I know it sounds insane, but I am _certain _she is somewhere in this country. I received information, whispers to that effect, even though I was not certain it was really her in the beginning," Hassildor carried on more rapidly, checking over his shoulder. The footsteps and voices were getting closer. "The presence of this necklace, here, confirms my suspicions. I don't know how she is alive, or what she is doing in Elsweyr, or whether Raksada has any kind of link with her, but you must find her. You must protect her from him."

"But Elsweyr is huge!" Vanin protested. "Even if you're right, how am I supposed to…!?"

"Lady Trencavel seems to have a talent for drawing attention to herself. Especially when she wants to pass unnoticed." Hassildor smiled thinly. "Do you remember that girl you bumped into in the Temple of the Two?"

The mage's jaw dropped. "That… girl? But she was _pregnant..?_!"

The Count's smile widened. "Interesting, isn't it?"

"_Hassildor!"_

Both the vampire and the mage jumped at the sound. The thrilled scream came from Raksada, who was running right toward them, followed by a dozen of men.

"If anything…_happens _to me, take care of Furball…and Rona. Off you go!"

"_What?!_" Vanin shouted with a horrified expression on his face, which, despite the seriousness of the situation, made the vampire smile. "But you've got to explain how you found out Trencavel was…!"

"No time!" Hassildor gestured frantically to Vanin, urging him to leave. "Go now! _Go_!"

The expression ofsadistic joy on Raksada's face finished convincing Vanin. He quickly nodded and ran away, Furball on his heels.

"Oh, not so fast, fatty!" Raksada yelled.

There was a flash of light and an electric spell shock flew in the direction of Vanin's back…

It never reached its mark, the attack absorbed by a counter-charm skilfully thrown by Hassildor.

"You'll never catch up, Raksada," the vampire declared, drawing his long Dwemer dagger out, checking over his shoulder, making sure Vanin and Furball were truly gone. This seemed to be the case, as they were nowhere to be seen. Even the sound of Vanin huffing and puffing as he lumbered along had faded.

The Dunmer contemplated his enemy for a moment, dumfounded. Then he roared with laughter. "So…you've decided to sacrifice yourself to cover Vanin's escape?" he said derisively. "How chivalrous…and ultimately _useless._" His eyes narrowed and he flashed a nasty smile. "Bombassa?"

The Redguard stood to attention. "Ubasi?"

"Find the fat man." Raksada ordered, still looking at Hassildor. "The Count and I have few things to discuss_._"

"Aye!" Bombassa agreed. He gestured to his lieutenants. "You lot, with me!"

They disappeared after Vanin, a handful of guards remaining with Raksada. The Dunmer and the vampire observed one another in silence for a while.

"A Dwemer dagger," Raksada shook his head in mock-disappointment as he regarded Hassildor's weapon. "Is that all you have, in this foolish attempt to fight me, Count?" He slipped his trident free from his back with a soft sound like rustling silk, assuming a defensive stance as he pointed the weapon at the vampire.

"That dagger is a present from a friend, and is has served me well so far," the Count replied calmly. "The last one who underestimated it – and me – is no longer with us."

Raksada raised an eyebrow. "Mannimarco?"

Hassildor replied with a satisfied smile which made the Dunmer scowl.

"We will see if you are as lucky with me, as you were with him." Raksada responded in a soft voice. "By the way, I understand your _expedition_ liberated a certain number of my belongings."

The Count remained quiet, neither confirming, nor denying the mission's objective.

"You won't mind, then, if I take them back?" Without waiting for an answer, the Dunmer charged.

**(1)** The myth of Narceril:

One of those widespread and stupid myths common to all the universes of the Multiverse.

Narceril was an High Elf of great beauty who felt in love with his reflection in the water and drown into it out of despair as the reflection – obviously – never answered his advances.

Now, seriously – how stupid is that?!


	18. Showdowns part 1

**Chapter 17****—Showdowns (part 1)**

**OMG, I am alive on ! And with an update ! The Universe is going to collapse...**

**Again, many thanks to Raven Studio, who is a dream of a Beta-reader and without whom this chapter would have been an epic failure (I HATE writing action scenes in a foreign language, damnit! XD ).**

**Duh, and now, off I go reading all the update of the stories I follow here ! 8D**

**7777777777777777**

"_(…)__ Contrary to popular belief, there is not one Mane, but several. More accurately, several _potential_ Manes._

_As explained earlier, the very punctual alignment of the moons Masser, Secunda and, according to the Khajiiti's version of Monomyth, an unidentified, mysterious celestial body called 'Jabu' allowing the birth of a very special breed, the _Enluya_, or "Chosen" in Ta'agra. These 'special' Khajiit-cubs are then gathered together by the Virgins of Dagomey._

_The formidable female warriors appear to be instinctively attracted to _Enluyas_. They are rumoured to travel thorough the whole Empire to find the "Chosen", and not to hesitate in using force to take the cubs from reluctant parents. _

_The way they then determine who, among the cubs, must be the new Mane remains a mystery. __There are hints about a ceremony, during which the current and often dying Mane chooses his successor with the help of the Staff of the Moon._

_As for what happens to the rest of the _Enluyas_, also has yet to be determined, as it seems that only the Virgins of Dagomey have the answer. An answer they seem quite unwilling to share. (…)"_

Dr. David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr", on "The Mane".

**7777777777777777**

"By the Nine! How do we..._always..._end up...caught in this kind of..._situation_?!" Vanin panted, as he ran along a flight of empty stairs, Furball on his heels.

The mage had not met anyone. It seemed to him as though the whole staff of the palace was attending Incosi Sha'ka's coronation, guards included—but he knew someone was following him, and was not sure what strategy to choose, if there was such a strategy. Should he try to find a crowd, mix into it to shake off his pursuers? But the only crowd he knew of was in the coronation chamber. So rather speeding along until he found a _darn_ exit from the _darn_ Kraal, more like a labyrinth than a proper palace, as twisted as the warped mind of its architect. A loud "boom" resonated through the Palace, making the walls tremble and Vanin wince. The boom sounded strongly like Hassildor's brand of battle.

Sweet Akatosh...The man was one of the most talented mages Vanin ever met—an impressive achievement, especially considering the Count had never set a foot in the Arcane University, and that Vanin was far from powerless. However, in a fight, he could get a bit _over__enthusiastic, _inadvertently blowing up more than just his target, as shown by the scars Castle of Skingrad still bore from previous "sparring sessions".

The Count finally accepted the idea of a special room built for this purpose, firstly because the castle would quickly end up a ruin, secondly because Hal-Liurz, the Count's chatelaine, threatened to resign if she and the servants of the castle had to clean up their mess "_One. More. Time_."

The training room under construction when Vanin and Hassildor left for Elsweyr, and, given how things were going, the mage wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to inaugurate it with his vampire friend…

At the thought, something tugged at Vanin's heartstring—or was it a stitch in his side?

Out of breath, the old mage surreptitiously slipped into a recess, taking a moment to mop his brow with his sleeve, leaning heavily against the wall while shooting worried glanced up and down the corridor.

"By the Nine, we have to find an exit—and quickly! I'm going to die, running around like this. I'm not twenty years old anymore! Furball?" The mage stopped when his sentence was not punctuated by the usual "whiff". "Furball?" he repeated, looking down.

The little dog sat at the mage's feet, immobile as a statute as it gazed up at him. Even if Vanin could not see the dog's eyes, buried under thick layers of furry brows, it was obvious to him Furball was shooting him an unpleasant look. The reason of the dog's discontent was all too obvious to the mage. It was a discontent he shared.

"Ah no, don't look at me like that!" Vanin exclaimed in distress. "You heard Janus—he wanted us to leave!"

Furball, undaunted, continued glaring at him until Vanin found himself uncomfortable gazing back the way he came. Having a dog make puppy eyes was one thing. The look Furball gave him now summed up everything he secretly thought and felt.

That he should _go back. _

The reproachful, silent glare from such a steadfast nemesis—one strongly hinting if he had stature greater than knee-height, he would certainly go back and bite anyone threatening his master—worked on Vanin as nothing else could.

Vanin pinched the bridge of his nose"Listen, you _stubborn_ furball." He bent forward, shaking a finger under the dog's nose. "We have no other choice, all right? I hate it too, but your master was right—what is the point in getting both captured or kil…?"

Vanin winced and bit his lower lip, but too late. The unfinished word hung ugly in the air. Furball growled, warning Vanin not to finish the thought, or even consider it.

"That's not what I meant!" the old Imperial snapped, trying to erase his blunder and reconcile himself once more to the plan of abandoning a friend to face certain…he did not even _think _the word, this time.

"Raksada is strong, sure, but Janus is far from powerless, and I am sure we will be able to all get out that place unscathed..."

Furball did not wait for the end of the mage's sentence, but yapped his utter disapproval. He got to his feet, turned around and sat down, presenting his back to Vanin, clearly displaying his opinion of the 's shoulders sagged wearily. All his justifications sounded weak, even to his own ears, and the dog too apparently agreed his decision to obey and run was no decision at all.

"Please Furball, try to understand..."

The mage knew he had already lost. Nothing in the Multiverse could resist a Cute-Thing-Looking-At-You-Reproachfully. Especially not when it echoed his own thoughts on a matter, preying on his conscience reinforcing the feeling of being the worst of bastards to have fled thus, abandoning a friend.

Since when had he, Master Ontus Vanin, former Battlemage, Peer of the Empire, and Terror of Necromancers run away from danger, leaving companions behind?

Had Hassildor dropped Vanin, when the latter struggled against the Mage Guild and Mannimarco? No, he had not. Even if the old mage was wary of the Count's motives and actions at the beginning, Hassildor showed himself a trusted ally and an unmatchable friend.

"Aaaah, fine, _fine_!" Vanin sighed, straightening up, pulling his stomach in and tightening his grip on his staff. "You're right. We can't dump the old bat like that. I'd never be able to live with myself…" The mage smiled thoughtfully. "Plus, Janus will get all the credit for saving the day if he succeeds, and I don't want to listen to him boasting about it for months on end. We're going back for him!"

"Whif!" Furball began jumping around excitedly.

"Well said!" Vanin brandished his staff and leapt from his hideout. "And now, to the rescue! Er…"

Vanin's enthusiasm vanished as he realised he stood in an intersection of four corridors, each looking exactly like its fellows.

He looked left, then right.

..._which way?_

"Are you looking for something?"

Vanin turned around blinking at the sudden appearance of _people_, when the hall was empty a moment before.

An Altmer stood in the archway of one of the corridors. A_ very_ young Altmer, who, given her total lack of pupils, was completely blind. Blind or not, it did not effect the bored, amused expression on her face. Behind her stood a couple of sinister looking soldiers.

He suddenly recognized the Altmer, as part of Raksada's party, who had chased Hassildor and himself hither, thither, and yon.

"Where is that Dunmer, and the Count?"

"One level up, at it hammer and tongs," answered a deep voice.

Vanin's eyes darted to his left. A Redguard materialised in the doorway of the second corridor accompanied by more guards. Noises behind him and to his right informed him still others had arrived.

Several covert glances revealed the biggest female Orcs he had ever seen, as well as a Dunmer with ball and chain, which he was twirling expertly…

Vanin discounted the guards. They were just muscle, and would probably run if things looked bad for their side. Never mind how they all looked like contestants for the "Most Repulsive Face Ever" award.

Vanin tightened his grip on his staff, shifting to and offensive position.

Sniggers broke out as Vanin held his ground, resonating readiness.

"You don't think you can fight us and win, do you?" Bombassa asked mockingly.

Vanin smiled humourlessly. "I'm thinking no such thing. I'm _going_ to fight you, and I'm _going_ to win."

Bombassa raised an eyebrow, neither amused, nor intimidated. "Do you know who we are, fatty? We're the Magnificent Four, and we could kill you in a heartbeat."

Cornered, and outnumbered fifteen to one, Vanin's logic did not override his intentions. But logic did remind him that even if he had considerable arcane power, and most of these ruffians did not…the odds were _still_ fifteen to one.

"Your old man's mind is catching up to current events, I see," the Redguard observed with a cruel smile as Vanin remained quiet. "So, you are going to surrender _quietly _and…"

Bombassa's face froze. Slowly, very slowly, he looked down at the little dog, now latched by the teeth into one of his calves. If the glare it gave him was any indication, they could pry his leg from its cold dead jaws.

The Redguard then slowly looked up again, wide-eyed in horror, as his mouth opened wide…

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahithurstsomeonegetitofmeeeeeeee!" The sound bounced off the floor, walls and ceiling.

The momentary silence from Urzob, Anirne, and Ralentu would have rendered the situation comical, if the atmosphere were not so tense.

"I think this must be one of the worst of Bombassa's battle cry so far…" Anirne pointed out, snapping her fingers to produce a fire ball.

"And I thought he topped himself with 'ohshitohshitohshitIforgottoputonmypants!'." Urzob replied, drawing her axe with a sigh.

No one laughed as Bombassa flailed and shrieked with pain, Furball firmly latched onto his leg, with the intent that anyone who meant to pry him lose, should bring their lunch.

As one man, led by Urzob, the mercenaries and soldiers charged.

**7777777777777777**

A small crowd of Raksada's personal guards, stood watching their master and Count Janus Hassildor.

In most cases, they watched from safety, hidden behind huge pillars supporting the ceiling, in case some spell should bounce off a counterspell, and into their unprotected midst. The prudence was not unjustified, as burning embers and singed spots, or rimes of frost indicated.

Wherever the battle raged, damages mounted. A fight between two evenly-matched opponents never stood still, this one moved about the Kraal, first one direction, then the other. Up and down flights of stairs, one fighter gaining ground, then the other winning it back. If the majority of the household was not at the coronation, the sounds shaking the floors and the smell of smoke would have brought them running. Or sent them fleeing from the Kraal altogether. If it were not for the fascination the fight held, even Raksada's guards would have fled, wisely so. It was quick, heart-pounding, each adversary using swordsmanship when proximity allowed, and spells of frightening intensity when proximity did not. No one could say which held the advantage. The battle changed locales and tactics too fast and too often for any such judgment to be pronounced.

"I always wanted to know," Raksada called between volleys of hexes, momentarily sheltered around a corridor's blind turn. His chest heaved from exertion, his hair damp with sweat, but a gleam of ferocious enjoyment in his eyes. "Was it you or Vanin who killed Mannimarco in the end? The reports were always…_unclear_."

Hassildor swallowed hard, icy fingers trailing along his skin, making him shudder at the clammy touch. The brief respite would be just that—brief—but it was better than nothing. His knuckles ached from gripping his dagger-hilt, his arm ached from parrying blows. Several holes in his clothes, damage inflicted by showering sparks, still smoked.

He peered out, caught Raksada doing same.

Raksada leapt back, the violent frost spell exploding in a shower of glittering ice and delicate snow on the wall behind, exactly where his head was moments before.

"The King of Worms was _already _dead, technically speaking. _That _was the entire problem!" Blast the Dunmer's quick reflexes. This was not the first spell to fail to find its mark because of them.

As subtle as a cat, the Dunmer leapt to the other side of the hallway, behind the other blind turn. The somersault—impressive because of the armour he wore landed him gracefully behind his new cover. He dodged Hassildor's next attack, then charged forward, taking advantage of the moment in which Hassildor had to conjure his next spell.

But the Count made a quick volte-face, parrying the blow his Dwemer dagger.

The blades met with the sound of grating metal and magic sparkles. Hassildor blocked his opponent's spear with the hilt of his dagger, expertly forcing both weapons downward towards the ground, bringing Raksada and himself nearly shoulder to shoulder.

The Count winced as his upper arm met with Raksada's spaulders, bristling with strange greenish crystals, which glowed softly.

"You still have not answered my question, lord Hassildor," Raksada murmured, eyes alight with battle and malice, his nose an inch from Hassildor's. "Was it you or Vanin who killed Mannimarco?"

Disregarding pain, the vampire pushed the Dunmer back violently, freeing his dagger from the spear as he stepped back. Raksada staggered forth, looking up in time to see the Count salute mockingly with his dagger. Age and experience will always overcome youth and skill. "I don't see why it should interest you."

The Dark Elf did not answer, launching a well-placed shock spell the Count.

Hassildor raised his dagger, parrying the spell in a mix of steel and magicka, sending sparks to dance and glitter on the floor about his feet. The impact of the spell, however, caused him to slide back, as though pushed by a great wind, despite boots and best effort.

"I'm certainly not an avenging descendant," Raksada snickered, "I simply wanted to know if it was you, so I may add the slayer of the King of Worms to my list of notable kills."" Raksada began to twirl his spear, until it seemed a near-solid shield before him. "Aside from that, Mannimarco was an interesting man to talk with—_if_ you could cope with the smell of rotting flesh..."

He talked too much, this Dunmer, Hassildor thought grimly, too much in love with the sound of his own voice. As Raksada answered the Count's question, Hassildor cleverly closed some of the distance between them. With great agility the vampire lunged forward, launching a fire spell at Raksada's chest before turning sharply to avoid retaliation.

Raksada raised the shaft of his spear in front of him, as though expecting such a trick from the start. The spell bounced back easily from the spear shaft, to his amusement. For a moment he lost sight of Hassildor as an unexpected billow of smoke and sparks blossomed in the air. "Not quick enou…!"

The taunt died in a breath-stealing, his left knee giving way with a sickening creak. Hassildor's spell was merely a decoy. The quickstep to the side, which Raksada _thought_ was an attempt to avoid a counterspell, was nothing of the sort. In the moment when the fireball impacted, adding momentary haze to the hallway, Hassildor sprang forward. His foot slammed vehemently and skillfully into the Dunmer's knee, during the one moment when Raksada lost sight of him

'_Not very fair play,'_ the Count thought, preparing to strike with his dagger, '_but efficient nevertheless_.' Vanin's nasty street-fighting tricks were definitely useful, if still cheap shots. Not forgetting Raksada survived a ceiling falling in on him, Hassildor decided there was no point in arguing 'fair' and 'cheap' tactics.

The elf survived being buried by _tons of rock, _and the point of a fight was to _walk away_.

Staggering, Raksada swore in Dunmeris as he tried to recover his balance. He did not recover fast enough.

Taking advantage of the Dark Elf's instability, Hassildor grabbed Raksada's hair in one hand, forcing the Dunmer's head back. Caught between imbalance and the yanking of his hair Raksada slipped, the vulnerable flesh of his throat bared. Even if he had worn his helmet, tiwould not have protected him from _this_.

Hassildor's dagger sank easily into the soft dark throat of the Dunmer.

Raksada's eyes opened wide, his pupils pinpointing as his mouth fell open to scream. The scream never came.

A metallic clatter resounded in the corridor as Raksada's weight collapsed to the ground. The spear fell to the floor as Raksada's hands scrabbled at Hassildor's wrist. Mercilessly, the vampire pushed Raksada back towards the ground, one hand still wrapped in the Dunmer's hair, driving the blade in, intent to feel it lodge in Raksada's neck bones, or punch out the back of his neck.

Hassildor's mind tried to cloud, as the smell and feel of hot, fresh blood gushing from around his dagger, over his hand, staining his sleeve. This was no time to let _that _interfere_. _

Raksada, try as he might, could no more free Hassildor's hand from the knife or free the knife from his throat than he could break Hassildor's arm. Failing the former options, he resorted to the latter, clutching the Count's forearm with a strength no mortal should possess, hoping to _shatter_ the bones within.

Hassildor ignored the pressure until he felt the blade hit the bones in Raksada's neck, slip, and slide the rest of the way through. Ripping the knife free, Hassildor stepped back, letting go of Raksada's hair.

Raksada's croaking of pain and the audience horrified whispers filled the room like quiet wind.

Blood sprayed on the pavement as the Dark Elf thrashed, each jerky movement more feeble than the last, as Hassildor stood over him, bloody dagger dripping, eyes burning, _watching_. Hassildor could not see Raksada's face hidden behind its curtain of long dark hair, but the Dunmer's right hand still clutched convulsively at the wound in his neck.

Silence fell in the corridor as Raksada's death spasms ceased, his body going slack with one last gurgling noise.

Hassildor took a few more steps back, massaging his aching forearm with mixed feelings. He _should_ strike again, _now_, but fighting primal vampire instinct, tickled by the pool of blood, took more out of him than he would have liked. The blood leaked out in an ever encroaching, dark crimson puddle. Ah, driving his fangs in the Dark Elf's neck and finishing the work his dagger had started...Raksada might be dead, or very close to it, but he was still warm. But seeing the Dark Elf's death throes left him unexpectedly sickened, as though watching something unnatural, sickly fascinating and repellent. It was not until he caught _it_ he realized things could get worse than the nausea nibbling at him. Worse than the way the air became thick, constricting, as though the hall was trapped in a giant fist—a giant fist closing to _crush _the structure and all in it.

The air was putrid. A horrible, putrid rising oder unlike death—clean or otherwise—and more sickening than corpserot, or vampire trapped in sunlight, burning and crisping in a thin haze of smoke...

Hassildor shook himself, fighting down a nausea of a different kind than that triggered by smell, a nausea caused by _fear_. The smell became more familiar the longer he stayed in Elsweyr, the ominous reek of mud, and stagnant swamp water. Sinister as the creep of evil across an assassin's heart before the organ turned black, and was swallowed up.

Hassildor glanced about, expecting to see insects and batrachians crawling out of the walls and along the floor, as on the night the strange green wind struck the palace. There were no creeping, crawling creatures this time, and the source of the scent came from somewhere else.

Horrified cries went up from the guards, drawing the vampire's attention back to the still, motionless corpse of Raksada. He still lay there, sprawled upon the floor, his head tilted to one side, his hand resting delicately on his throat, where it fell as he died, trying to stop the wound. He looked dead….except…except that…

Mesmerised, the Count dragged his eyes away from the Dark Elf to blood still covering his and dagger. It was tacky, starting to dry but perfectly normal, like the blood on the ground, still red and relatively liquid.

Raksada's wound now gushed as though the blood in him was suddenly under high pressure, a fountain not of blood, but the dark swamp silt, and the terrible smell. And the Dunmer's body no longer looked limp, but lay straight, as though every muscle was tensed, prepared for some leap back into life.

Impossible. If still alive, Hassildor would have taken a deep breath of disbelief, before breath would come in short gasps of shock, and sweat rolled down living skin.

Obviously, he did none of this, except to mimic the intake of breath accompanying shock. _It was impossible._

More than a few on-lookers fled the corridor. The sickening sounds of vomit spattering in dark, hidden corridors reveals many too slow to flee.

Hassildor took a few more steps back, covering his nose with his sleeve as the nauseating smell of swamp and evil became even stronger.

"_Impossible__,"_ the vampire thought as the strange crystals ornamenting Raksada's spaulders, vambraces and knees began pulsating with a and strange greenish glow, which grew stronger by the second. 'Impossible. _The other night, he was...he bled normally! Like any mortal should!_'

...or had he? The Count remembered too well how, when Raksada lay beneath the ceiling, the Dark Elf's blood flooded the floor. Perfectly normal blood, which had more than tickled Hassildor's vampire senses…

But doubt crept like shadows into his mind. Could he be sure? After all, the air that night was also saturated with that putrid smell. Any more putrescence coming from Raksada's body would not have made much difference, even to the vampire's well-developed sense of smell.

The Count did not have more time to ponder the issue. Raksada, his breath hissing and labored, reached stiffly with one hand, brushing his hair from his face before sitting up and _looking _at Hassildor. The vampire's blood froze in his veins—or given his undead state, froze a little bit more—at the sight of the expression of malevolence and madness sported by the Dunmer.

Raksada clapped his hands gently, mockingly, his mouth twisted in a leer. "Congratulations, Count. First blood...is yours." Raksada ended in a laugh punctuated by a repulsive gurgle as another flood of the sticky dark liquid gushed from both wound and mouth. Apparently disgusted, Raksada wiped his mouth with his hand, grimacing.

A terrified murmur ran through the remaining crowd when Raksada laboriously seized his spear and using it as a crutch, pushed himself to standing, his legs shaking under the effort. The whole time, his burning eyes never left the Count's face.

Hassildor, who could not help but to take another step backward.

"Oh yes, the first blood is yours." Raksada hissed again, dark, putrescence dripping obscenely from his chin. "But _last_ blood...counts for more." **(1) **

"It's in bad taste to discuss blood here, and now," Hassildor replied, lowering his sleeve, trying to hide the disgust and hint of fear in his voice.

Raksada gave another derisive laugh, interrupted several times by gasps, which racked his entire body. "Oh yes...I almost forgot I was talking to...a connoisseur." Raksada finally managed to respond, though he continued panting hard. "I am surprised you are not...already on the ground...lapping up. You are not the kind to..." he sputtered, "turn your nose to a good gulp of...blood."

"Blood is one thing," the vampire spoke sharply, hoping to hide his disgust. "_This_ is definitely _another_."

The Dunmer straightened up slowly, still relying heavily on his spear. Despite the laboriousness of his breathing, it was gradually returning to normal. The expression of a moment before, pure agony, finally gave way to one of malignant joy. "There was a time when what ran in my veins was truly blood. But I made a mistake which... _cost _me dear, but offered _such_ compensations." Raksada did not say the compensations outweighed the cost, or imply that they did. The statement completely neutral, information not opinion.

He wiped away more of the dark liquid drying on his chin with the back of his hand. On his neck, the wholly congealed blood formed a thick scab over the wound. The glow of the crystals on his armour grew soft, to barely pinpricks of light. "You know, Lord Hassildor, you and I have more in common than you think."

"Allow me to hold—and express—my doubts about that," the vampire growled.

Raksada's lips curled up into one of his malicious smiles. "How old are you now, Count? Seventy? Eighty?"

The Count did not reply. Raksada began prowling around him, circling like a carrion bird. The Count followed the Dunmer's progress with his eyes. "You exact age actually doesn't really matter. You _have_ been endowed with the Dark Gift for a while now…haven't you? It must be hard to keep _it_ at bay and control _it._"

"I don't follow," Hassildor frowned, as he came back to guard again, anticipating an attack.

"_You_ know…" Raksada's eyes glittered. "The terrible _hunger_ which doesn't let of you...The _urge_ to turn all those around you into bloodless husks…"

Again, the vampire kept his mouth shut, but an unpleasant sensation of his stomach turning upside-down was hard to ignore. The last thing he wanted was to discuss the drawbacks of his undead state—_especially_ in public.

And that bastard Raksada seemed extremely well informed…

"How long have you...failed to satisfy that hunger, Janus?" the Dunmer teased. He no longer used his spear as cane, and now held it pointed at the vampire. "A good week, since your arrival in Torval, correct me if I'm wrong. It must get very..._uncomfortable_."

"You're wrong. Though your concern _is_ quite touching." the Count lied sarcastically.

Raksada's lips curled up into a wicked, knowing smile. "How _is_ your _entourage_, by the way?"

Hassildor's heart sank before he realised the Dunmer was not making insinuations about Rona's health, but about the fact he was feeding on his staff. Sill, it was enough to incense the Count, and, dropping his guard, he pointed a finger at Raksada.

"You have _no idea_ of what you speak!" he snapped. "We are not _forced_ to turn into blood-thirsty animals!"

"_Oh really_?" the Dunmer continued to prowl around the Count, his dark grey cloak floating elegantly behind him. Each successive lap about the Count brought Raksada a little closer. "How many of your kind, Janus, over the hundreds of those monsters haunting the Empire, have been able to make such a choice? How many have_ truly_ succeeded? And how many will succeed again?" Raksada stopped, smiling at the Count's expression, brimful of darkness and homicide. "Do you think you can do better than any of those poor—ah—_suckers_ because you have more power, more wealth? Or because you received an…_education_?"

The distaste for the word Hassildor momentarily lost control of his temper. "It is a matter of _will!"_ he shouted, his face twisting in rage and clenching his fists. "Discipline can…!"

"Discipline…_Ah_! Your oh-so-noble resolutions won't stand against time, you know," Raksada interrupted him defiantly. "I know your kind well, Janus. Many before you have tried to control their instincts, and they _all_ have failed in the long term." The Dunmer's eyes narrowed maliciously. "Because we both know what happens when your kind grow older, don't we?"

"Oh, because you have met many of my kind, haven't you?" Hassildor observed mockingly, still not bothering to wrestle anger and disgust for the Dunmer into check.

"I have." Raksada replied, an all too knowing smirk playing about his lips, his weapon at the ready, but almost forgotten in his hand. Almost, but not quite. "So powerful, yet so weak. Beings with amazing abilities slowly warped into social pariahs. Forced to hide from the sunlight or, if they want to survive its burning embrace, to feed regularly on creatures they despise for being weak, little more than cattle…"

Hassildor gave Raksada his best look of overweening superiority, a proud ruler humouring his paid fool.

It did not daunt Raksada in the slightest. "Your elders gain an eternity to ponder over the absurdity of their existence. As the years pass, they grow more isillusioned, more cynical—and much more..._practical_. In the end, the need finally overtakes moral principles." Raksada gave a short laugh. "Always at the expense of some fair, innocent maiden." An almost compassionate expression crossed his face. "The leopard can't change his spot, Janus. Your pathetic efforts to keep your true nature at bay will fail one day or another. And perhaps they have failed already…?"

Raksada ended up his speech with sick malice.

Hassildor stood where he was, with the stillness only a vampire could ever attain, so pale he looked carved from marble, or waiting for some fatal touch to turn him to stone.

"Silence gives consent," the Dunmer sniggered. "And speaking of fair maidens, how is your wife? _Rona_, am I correct? It has been a while since she made a public appearance. Is she already as dry as parchment or do you just keep her for dessert? A sip here, a taste there…?"

The shock spell hit Raksada's chest with enough force to put him through a wall, if he'd stood before one. As it was, he went careening back along the hall, hitting the ground with an 'oof' and a sonorous "clonk". His spear slipped on the floor, spinning away from his hand.

Hassildor rushed at the Dunmer, in complete silence, with a speed so far unseen. The soundless speed of the onslaught, and the ugly looking Hassildor's face, weathering his features to some parody of normalcy clearly expressed his new objective in life was to tear the Dunmer to pieces.

With his bare hands, if possible.

Raksada shook his head, groggy, as he scuttled backward, a pathetic attempt to avoid the infuriated vampire.

The Count was almost on him when he realised his own terrible mistake.

With impressive speed, the Dunmer heaved himself back on his feet, with a gleeful expression no longer showing any signs of distress.

"Surprise!" Raksada exclaimed triumphantly, opening his right hand. Greenish light flashed. With a sound of metal scraping the ground, his terrible spear suddenly returned to its master's hand. **(2)** With a scream of joy, Raksada squirmed like an eel to deliver a powerful blow to his opponent.

Hassildor moved like a cat, stopping his charge in an instant. He had just enough time to arch his back, deftly avoiding a lethal strike. He did not manage to avoid the spear tip of slicing into his arm, his cloak and the shirt underneath. The vampire found himself without a sleeve and with a flesh wound, livid on his shoulder and bicep.

The smell of burning flesh startled the Count, as did the hissing bubble coming from the injury. He gave short yelp as stabbing pain lanced through his arm, to shoulder to shoulder, and all the way down to his fingers. He retreated to inspect the damages, parrying more attacks as he did so.

The terrible sensation of burning in his arm was not simply exposure to light. The wound looked blistered, and Hassildor felt as though a fire hex burned beneath the outmost layer of skin—which was probably the case.

"Fire enchanted blade," Raksada came back to guard. "The powerful hex cauterises wounds, preventing people from bleeding like pigs." His lips curled up in an unctuous and purely sadistic smile "But it hurts a lot, doesn't it? I have always thought the Spear of Bitter Mercy wears its name well."

"The Spear of Bitter Mercy…" the Count repeated, the burning, at first ignorable, seemed to grow until his whole arm pulsed with fiery pain. "You mix with Daedra as well? Is _Foodoo_ alone not enough?"

At the mention of "Foodoo", a gasp ran in the on-looking crowd while a thin smile devoid of humour appeared on Raksada's lips. Plainly both he and Hassildor momentarily forgot the watchers in the wings, up until this point.

"You are well informed. I expected no less from you. But I doubt you understand _all_ the implications of that discovery."

Raksada suddenly cut a graceful, somewhat mad in Hassildor's opinion, caper. For the second time, the tiny greenish crystals on Raksada's armour started to glow.

Hassildor was ready to swear he heard drums beating in the distance. But the strange impression died as suddenly as it started. It was not enough to distract him from the gnawing desire to tear Raksada apart. Forget Hal-Liurz. his more primal instincts screamed: take Raksada's head—face, hair and all—for a _paperweight_. "All I know for sure about you," the Count hissed, "is that you are a treacherous, mad bastard, to be stopped at all costs."

The Elf's crystalline laugher and ironic clapping greeted this statement. "_All _costs? You _are_ an intrepid one, aren't you?" He then came back to guard, the Spear of Bitter Mercy gleaming with silent threat, his smile gone. "You think you will be the one to stop me? That you _can_ stop me?"

Once again, Hassildor remained silent, momentarily pushing aside rage to consider his options. He was not far from the throne room, he knew it. The only question was if could get there before Raksada finished him off. In spite of anger, the Count could not delude himself—he was no match to the Dark Elf. Even if he succeeded in exposing the traitorous Dunmer to the Incosi and his court, would _they_ be powerful enough to defeat him afterward…?

Hassildor winced as the throbbing sensation in his arm increased. He instinctively grabbed his forearm, glad to have taken a whole phial of blood the night before, or else this whole affair would have been messier, and more painful. Even if the sensation was not excruciating, it was just a matter of time before it became so.

The Count's movement did not escape Raksada's notice. "We'd better finish this duel before the servants have to dust you from the floor." His expression slipped off, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when he realised Hassildor was _smiling_ at him. "Have you finally lost your mind?"

"_I'm_ the _intrepid _one, Raksada." The vampire's smile widened, revealing his sharp fangs. "I will just make sure I fight in the shade." **(3)**

**7777777777777777**

"Stopping the duel? What do you mean 'stopping the duel'?" Fog Marley demanded, flabbergasted, before he starting to frown. "You should get in the shade, man. The sun's starting to get to you."

The Rastajiit stopped his sentence when Lucien grabbed him by the arm, his nostrils flared with anger. For a moment Fog knew he had not only underestimated Lucien, but entirely misread him. Behind the brown eyes, the previous act of a fool was something…cold. If his mother ever told him stories about a devouring monster lurking in the darkness, it would have had _those eyes._ "_Sha'ka knew we were coming, _you Skooma-soaked moth-eaten carpet!" Lucien almost drove his nails through the Khajiit's fur, into his skin beneath "J'Ghasta is not going to win that fight—_no matter what_. It's a _trap_!"

Fog blinked in lack of understanding, his eyes wide in bewilderment. "Sha'ka knew? A _trap_?"

Disgusted, Lucien released the Rastajiit, shooting a desperate, but calculating look at the two Khajiit silhouettes fighting.

Despite the battle having started a few minutes ago, the two opponents already fought with a level of aggressiveness and ferocity, Lucien had not expected. Both sported several bleeding wounds, resultant of the rain of claws and teeth as they fell on one another. .

Lucien let his keen eyes drift from the fighters to scan the room, just as though he were casing the site for a contract: a predator in amongst the cattle. Courtiers, guards—lots of those—Khajiit, foreigners, all packed into the confined space, all watching the fight. Yet _someone_ was watching the fight with both more and less than interest. There should be a little detail, some little giveaway, a tiny one, but enough toallow him to find out_ where the assassin Sha'ka had hired to eliminate J'Ghasta was hiding. _He could almost hear Rivanone's voice in his ear, echoes from early training.

"_Ya'Tirrje will survive it. Or not. Doesn't really matter how the fight ends, anyway,"_ Mudli, Master Assassin of Senchal's SyndiCat, said before disappearing into the crowd.

The Imperial's brain started to race as familiar connections of synapses put quickly themselves into place, triggering all the mental reflexes he had learned during his life as an assassin as his hazel eyes continued to inspect the crowd. He had to react quickly if he wanted to avoid a tragedy. And the first thing to do was to identify the assassin.

_If he was the assassin, what would he do?_

He _was _an assassin, which made the logic easier to understand.

Sha'ka had accepted the challenge, so Lucien guessed the king wanted a discreet execution. Something which would go unnoticed and would give the impression Sha'ka won the fight. This excluded any close range attack. The room was packed with people, so a high-up spot was needed for good view of the target…

Lucien looked up, narrowing his inspection. He _saw_ the assassin, well hidden save from the eyes of another killer for hire, perched in one corner of the ceiling, half-concealed by the numerous hangings.

Not removing his eyes from the almost indiscernible silhouette, the Imperial seized Fog deliberately by the arm, gesturing discreetly with his chin in the assassin's direction. "Left of the third hanging, from the right."

Fog frowned hard, glaring blankly at the spot before his eyes opened wider, spotting the assassin, too busy watching his mark to notice he was now marked. "Oh shit." His ears flattened against his headdismay painting his face. "Bad vibes, man, really _bad _vibes..."

"Forget your vibes, what is _that_?" Lucien's eyes fell on the long stick in the Khajiit's assassin's hands. "Blowpipe?"

Fog gulped. "Aye."

Lucien's eyes narrowed, looking for ways to get up there, but not letting the assassin leave his field of vision. "Loaded with what?"

"You can bet on darts coated with _ouari,_ or 'curare', as you Imperials call it." The Khajiit winced, then whined, "Lucien, could you let my arm go please? You're _really_ hurting me…"

Lucien ignored him, but released the Khajiit, lest his whining attract attention. "Poison. Obviously…" The Speaker of the Black Hand knew too well the effects of curare, having made good use of it in his career in the Dark Brotherhood. The poison penetrated the blood, paralysing the victim, blocking breathing function, a painful agony by suffocation—something he usually liked to reserve to particularly elusive and annoying targets…

"What do we do?" Panic and fear finally shook the Rastajiit from his complacent lethargy. "We must find Mudli to…"

"Oh yes, we must—but not for the reasons you're thinking of," Lucien interrupted furiously. By Sithis, as soon as he could get his hands on the Khajiit thug, he would take a vicious and keen pleasure to make him bleed to death with refined cruelty.

But not yet. First, he needed to find a way to stop the...

A pause.

To stop the…

Another pause. Slowly but surely, a nasty idea made its way into Lucien's mind.

The assassin clutched his hands nervously as he watched without really seeing it Sha'ka launching a series of powerful attacks on J'Ghasta. The Imperial found himself breathing a quicker, cold beads of sweat slipping from his forehead.

He had to stop the duel. Now. Lucien's lip curled, with the resurgence of his old mindset. Why _should_ he do _anything_, after all?Why could not he just let things play out?

When you thought about it, was it his fault they mixed themselves up into this silly hopeless business? SyndiCat, _igwala_, Skooma, Incosi—hardly his concern, was it?

The nasty little thought continued undermining the intent to act, its poisonous arguments contaminating every corner of Lucien's mind, like the tentacles of some hideous octopus.

When he stopped to thought of it, the task on finding Trencavel—may she rot in the Void for eternity—originally went to _J'Ghasta_, not Lucien himself. He acted as a friend should, when he accompanied the Khajiit on this dangerous journey. He could not be blamed for failure, could he?

The mental octopus' tightened its grip on Lucien's mind, and the latter did not do much to resist it.

J'Ghasta was a great friend—the best he ever had actually. But the Khajiit was also stubborn as a mule, convinced he was always right, no matter what...and so _full of himself_, Mister I-Know-Better-Than-You. All that because he was _Listener_ and Lucien was _just_ a Speaker. _Ah._

Fine. The Big Kitty put himself all alone in this mess—now, let's see how he would get out of it without Lucien's help…

All protesting thoughts produced by Lucien's mind died, mercilessly suffocated by the wicked octopus, and the assassin of the Black Hand was an inch to carefully start to walk away, abandoning J'Ghasta to his fate when…

"_Oooh, no. Not this time." _said a merry voice in Lucien's head. "_Shoo. Go away, you. Shoooo!"_

At the sound, the mental octopus retracted at the speed of light, leaving the Imperial in a state of sudden mental blank—which did not happen to him very often. The feeling was extremely strange and somewhat unpleasant, as if his mind had been filled up with extremely thick cotton wool. He hated strange-unpleasant feelings. It usually meant nothing good.

'_Coward. You treacherous, filthy _coward_. It is stronger than you, isn't it? Plotting to betray those closest to you, out of jealousy or to preserve your miserable existence…' _the voice continued in a nonchalant tone. '_J'Ghasta _saved your neck_ so many times you would need a dozen hands to count them all. And you plan to abandon him?'_

Lucien blinked slowly. The voice which currently resonating in his brain sounded strangely like his own, but the tone was much, _much_ more affected. Cultivated. Pompous. Almost..._aristocratic_.

'_Who's there?'_ Lucien ventured carefully.

'_Your conscience.'_

The assassin frowned mentally. _'Pardon?'_

'_Your _conscience._'_ the very urbane voice repeated patiently_. 'Or, to be more psychologically accurate, your Super-Ego—you know, one of the three divisions of your personality…? That tiny little voice in the back of your head that morally judges your actions, which _you_ have diligently buried under thick layers of cynicism, hatred and anger?'_

Lucien's puzzlement deepened. _'What?'_

'_I know you are not familiar with the concept of 'conscience' any more,'_ his conscience sighed. _'But at_ least_ you could make a little effort…'_

'_No, I haven't _forgotten_. Apparently, the layers of cynicism, hatred and anger weren't thick _enough_…'_ Lucien growled, recovering from his surprise. '_Now be kind enough to get out of my head! Hearing voices is Sigrid Trencavel's speciality—not mine.'_

'_Ah but contrary to her case, I am not an alien conscience living as a parasite in your mind._ I_ am an integral part of it, and apparently still able to have a little influence over you, even if I have atrophied in the last three decades.' _

Lucien was not listening anymore, as a roar coming from the crowd around him made him to give a start.

He shook his head. He had no idea exactly how much time he had spent lost in his thoughts—or rather, being irked by his conscience—but apparently not long, as he was contemplating the end result of Sha'ka's last attack against J'Ghasta, mere seconds earlier.

The king kicked his feet violently against J'Ghasta's belly. The latter, quick enough to avoid the blow landing in his stomach, was quick enough to avoid it _totally,_ taking it in the thigh instead.

J'Ghasta retreated, limping. Lucien refrained from screaming at him to stay close to Sha'ka, no matter what. The king's assassin would not dare take the risk of killing his employer, would he?

The crowd began to encourage Sha'ka, jeering at J'Ghasta.

J'Ghasta's hands were too full to notice. He clumsily dodged a series of particularly quick attacks. At least, once again, they were too close to each other for the assassin to risk to take a shot…

"It doesn't look good…" whined Fog Marley, fiddling nervously with his shapeless, over-colourful beret. "It doesn't look good _at all_."

"Shut up," Lucien hissed. Now his traitorous thoughts had wholly died, he was feeling...weird. A very _weird_ sensation oppressed him.

'_In case you don't remember, _this _is_ remorse_.' The _Conscience commented happily. _'It has been a while since you have experienced it, hasn't it?'_

'_You're still there?!' _the Imperial barked at his conscience, who gave a well-mannered chuckle.

'_And always will be. You didn't _seriously_ think you could get rid of me…?'_

'_You have been _veryquiet_ all these years,' _Lucien growled_, 'why bother me _now_?!'_

'_Hmmm, let's see...Because during the last months, you have undergone a series of mental shocks which have severely shaken your certitudes and whipped up the extremely muddy waters of your nauseating psyche, pushing you to re-evaluate a life mainly consisting of bloodshed and an amazing accumulation of frustrations?' _Super-Ego explained in an innocent voice.

'_You could have avoided all those unpleasant terms.'_ Lucien observed gloomily. _'And I don't like that answer much, either.'_

'_Why not? Isn't it true? Don't you have _anything_ heinous to reproach yourself, Lucien? And you know I am not _only_ talking here about your homicidal tendencies…' _the conscience observed in a sweet voice.

A dark silence answered the Conscience.

'_I am glad to see you have not forgotten,' _it sniggered. '_Oh, and now we are a bit more familiar with each other, you can call me Lucien Cricket.'_

'_Lucien...What?!' _

'_Cricket. You know, the insect that jumps high and far, sings, rampages the harvests in the Elsweyrian savannah and, on certain occasions involving a fairy and a wooden puppet, wears a suit, a top hat and is a total pain in the neck. Don't ask me—apparently, this is some kind of Multiverse joke...'_ Lucien Cricket explained. _'And instead of standing around with that _silly_ expression on your face wouldn't you rather take that awesome brain of yours, and work out a plan to save your friend.' _it added reproachfully. _'Time's ticking.'_

'_I am an _assassin_. You know—ruthless, merciless, and somewhat cruel with a nauseating psyche…?_' Lucien sneered darkly, having recovered from his surprise._ 'Rescue is not exactly my_ _forte__!'_

'_You did it in the Montforts' manor not so long ago, remember?'_

'_I was not in my normal state of mind!' _

There was a slapping sound, like the one made by the palm of a hand slapping on a forehead. _'Oh yes, I forgot.'_ Cricket said, as though reeling from the blow. '_Silly me. You were _obviously_ not in your normal state of mind, your..._hormones_—to say the least_—_having largely been perturbed by the presence of Mahaut Montfort and her great likeness with Trencavel…!' _

Lucien was about to snap a reply, but the sentence was punctuated by a purely bestial giggle. _'Hur, hur...!'_

There was an awkward pause.

If Super-Ego's voice—or rather Lucien Cricket as it wanted to be called—reminded Lucien of cosy libraries, refined manners and civil brandy-drinking around a nice fire in good company, this one was definitely made him think about dark corners, sweaty armpits and dirty underwear.

'_Er...What was..._that_...?'_ Lucien asked carefully.

'_Remember when I said I was one of the _three_ instances of your psyche apparatus?'_ Cricket said with a resigned sigh. _'Well, you—Ego—are the second...And what you just heard is the third and last one, Id.'_

Another stupid giggle answered.

'_Id?'_ Lucien repeated in a puzzle tone.

'_Id._ _The unconscious part of your psyche containing your most primal instincts.'_ Lucien Cricket explained with a shiver of disgust_. 'Like, when you scratch your crotch in _such_ a distinguished manner when you get up in the morning, when you pick your nose, when you have not aired your libido in a while and feel like…'_

'_Yeah, yeah, all right, I got it!'_ Lucien interrupted him quickly in a panicked voice.

'..._or_ _when you kill poor _innocent _people and _enjoy_ it or _plan to betray your friends,' Cricket added in a much louder and full of carefully emphasized understatements voice, _'it is Id who taking over. _

Lucien bit a metaphorical lower lip. _'You mean...The octopus-thingy you chased away…?' _

'…_was Id.' _the Cricket confirmed_. 'Id has no notions of good or bad. Id only has urges. Am I correct, Id?'_

'_Hur, hur...!'_

Lucien frowned_. 'Can it—sorry, can _Id_ speak, or…?'_

'_No it can't, and frankly, it's probably better that way. I, for one, would not like to hear what it has to say.' _

"Lucien!" Fog exclaimed, shaking his companion by the arm.

The Imperial came back to his senses, glaring at Fog Marley. Again, his inner conversation seemed not to have lasted more than a handful of seconds—but it was the handful of second too much. Or Almost.

In less than a heart beat, Lucien looked towards J'Ghasta, then towards the assassin. The latter brought the blowpipe to his lips, his chest inflating, ready to blow the lethal dart that would put an end to the fight—and to J'Ghasta.

Lucien did not even take the time to think…

He sprang forward, catlike, without wobbling on the landing in the middle in the circle in which Sha'ka and J'Ghasta was fighting. Before he even came to a full halt, before his feet finished taking his weight he stood up in front of J'Ghasta. Both combatants froze in surprise. In an instant, with movements fast enough to impress even a Khajiit the Imperial grabbed the stunned king by the arm, whipped him about before any retaliation could occur, and dragged the Khajiit, shield-like, in front of him.

There was no noise, no theatrical scream.

The crowd, as stupefied as the fighters, glared as, Sha'ka stumbled, then lurched back. Slowly, Sha'ka brought a hand to one of his shoulders, wincing as he plucked something from it, before bringing it before his eyes.

He turned, looked up from the tiny dart between two of his fingers, to glare at Lucien—before his eyes rolled upward. Lucien stepped back impassively, just before Sha'ka collapsed to the ground at his feet.

A dead silence settled over the assembly…

...quickly shattered by a scream.

"_Sha'ka_!"

All heads turned to Princess Naandi, standing straight and shaking slightly.

"Kill them!" yelled Naandi.

The Amabuthos lowered their weapons, shaking off their shock.

"I can...I can explain!" Lucien started, his face sporting the horrified smile of those who know they are going to face and imminent and painful death. For a gleaming moment he was back in his proper line of work…and now he was back to being J'Ghasta's hapless sidekick.

The guards took another menacing step forward.

And then the world exploded.

**(1)** Awesome bit of dialogue is awesome and sadly not from Stupid Author, but from R.A. Salvatore. Stupid Author can't remember from which book of the "Drizzt" series though. Must be the one in which Drizzt and Entreri are fighting in the sewers of Calimport.

**(2) **Stupid Author feels a disturbance in the Force.

**(3) **This…is..._Torval_ !

Stupid Author really wonders what Hassildor would look like in a Spartan armour…


	19. Showdowns part 2

**Out of Elsweyr**

**Chapter 17 **

**Showdowns ****pt. II**

Yay, still alive ! XD  
And with a new chapter.

Stolen Socks (my new beta, as Raven Studio is sadly too busy to keep beta reading) and I are not totally finished with the beta reading/editing thing, but given I am going to move and be deprived of Internet for another undetermined period of time, I really had to post it.

A new edited version will be posted later on. Thus, you will be able to appreciate all the editing work done by my adorable beta.

* * *

_"...Everything has a price. The Swamps gives, but the Swamps also takes, and only fools can expect to take from the Swamps without giving it something in return._

_But the strangers, who came from beyond the seas, in their arrogance, could not care less. And while they meddled into the Old Arts, tearing apart the very fabric of Life and Death, the Iwas got angry._

_But the strangers, who came from beyond the seas, in their arrogance, could not care less. They thought they could repay the Swamps by sacrificing lives which did not belong to them. And the Iwas got even angrier._

_But the strangers came from beyond the seas, in their arrogance, could not care less. _

_So the Iwas sent the Nekomakas, the Guardians of the Swamps, to castigate the impious._

_And the strangers from beyond the sea, losing all arrogance, finally paid the price to the Swamps..."_

_**– Dr. David Deadstone, "Out of Elsweyr"**_

_** (**__**translation of the Khajiit oral tradition on the Lion Men)**_

* * *

Vanin jumped sideways as quickly as he could to avoid a fireball on his right, wincing as he felt the heat brushing against his face. He barely managed to get his balance back to face his opponent again, now that the latter, a young and _blind_ Altmer with surprising magical abilities for someone of that age, was already preparing another attack.

"I am going to fry you like a rasher of bacon, fatty!" Anirne yelled, snapping her fingers and producing fire small fireballs which quickly flew away toward the mage.

The old Imperial pared a few projectiles with an ice counter spell before he ducked clumsily to avoid the rest, which aimed to turn his head into a mass of melted flesh.

_Aiming_ – or rather, being aimed at. This was Vanin's main problem right now.

Initially, the mage had thought that the girl managed to locate him by his voice, but soon, he had noticed, even if he remained silent she seemed able to follow any of his movements with great precision. With _amazing_ precision. And it did not take too much time for the mage to work out that the Altmer was seeing him due to his magical aura – a talent mastered only by arcane practitioners of the greatest ability.

The fact that such a young girl, even if High Elf, had managed to master such a capacity at her age, and at that level of accuracy, was a wonder the mage had not been able to grasp yet and it was growingly worrying him – especially when he had the feeling his survival was at stake.

Nevertheless – and despite the fact the issue was bothering him greatly – the Imperial mage decided wisely not to dwell more on the subject as more urgent problems asked for his immediate attention; a huge Orc was running toward him, her huge double-axe raised above her head and he needed to find a way to block the attack without delay – or get ready to be cut into halves.

"Yaaaaargh!" Urzob's cry resounded between the walls.

Vanin could not help but feeling his hair standing on the end as he raised his magic staff in a protection move to parry the blow.

So far the mage had been lucky, but he could feel tiredness building up in his muscles and he felt it more and more difficult to concentrate his aura to launch spells – the effects of old age, but not only...

The two mercenaries had revealed themselves to be particularly tough opponents, and Vanin had to find a way to get rid of them quickly, or things would soon get singularly complicated and _very messy_.

The Imperial just had the time to shout an incantation to cast a shielding spell around his staff. But despite the magical protection, the blow was so violent the old mage felt his teeth chattering. He took several steps backward, his whole body shaking from head to foot.

The Orc raised her axe again, yelling as she did so, and Vanin braced himself for another powerful attack...

... which, fortunately for him never came, as this was the moment Anirne chose to launch another fire spell. With a rain of orange sparkles, the fire tongue lashed out between the mage and the Orc, both jumping backward to avoid the sad fate of being turned into kebabs.

"By the Gods, careful, Anirne!" Urzob barked, momentarily forgetting about Vanin and shaking an angry fist at the Altmer's ally: "You almost fried me!"

A contrite pout appeared on the young Elf's face.

"Hey, no one asked you to jump in front of me," she protested, before her lips turned up into a provocative smile: "One has to wonder who is the blindest here..."

Urzob blinked in surprise, before the rage took over.

"_What?_" she said, walking toward Anirne with a menacing gleam in her eyes. "And all the others, hey?" she said, pointing at carbonised humanoid forms on the ground that Anirne, blind as she was, could not see: "They were blind too, or what?!"

Deciding that Providence was definitely with him and that it would be silly of him not to take advantage of the fact the two mercenaries had suddenly became oblivious to his presence, Vanin carefully took a few steps backward to put some safe distance between him and his opponents, and to enjoy a small moment of respite which would help him to recharge his magical aura.

It would not have been the first time that Anirne's magic would have provoked collateral damages, as proved by the many still fuming bodies lying on the ground – remains of the handful of mercenaries accompanying the Four Magnificent, who had paid the price for Anirne's ardent – literally speaking – enthusiasm. Some had also been victim of their own companions' clumsiness in the tiny space offered by the corridor in which they were all fighting.

So far the lack of room – which Vanin had initially considered as a major problem – was actually playing in the old mage's favour and counterbalanced the fact that he was outnumbered by the Four Magnificent with their henchmen.

In that overcrowded, limited space the Imperial had been quickly able to bring the odds back into his favour. Originally planning to fight in a very clever and crafty way, the mage had found it much easier to rely on the simple observation that when his enemies had to be extremely careful not to maim an ally while attacking him, Vanin merely had to shoot randomly at the melee to be sure to hit the nail on the head.

This strategy has been really paying off so far, leaving Vanin only the Four Magnificent to face – or rather, to face Vanin _and_ a rather excited Furball…

"Is that me or is that creature spring-driven?!" the mage heard the Redguard leader of the mercenaries yelling in his back to his Dark Elf companion. "And why is it always after _my_ calves!? Take it away! _Take it away_!"

"It would be easier if you could stop jumping around like that yourself!" the Dark Elf retorted, as he made his strange weapon, a metallic chain ended up by an equally metallic ball, whirling around him, waiting for the opportune time to strike.

"That's easy for you to say – it is not _your_ legs he is biting!" the Redguard snarled back. "Hey, wait! You are not going to...!?"

His horrified exclamation got interrupted by a swift whirling sound, followed by a loud _"boom"_ – and a scream.

"Argh, Ralentu, you moron!" the Redguard yelled, jumping on his valid leg while holding his hurt feet with both hands. "That was my _foot_!"

Vanin cast a glance on his left, catching a glimpse of a small furry white ball, jumping around, holding a large piece of fabric – undoubtedly a bit of the Redguard's pants - between its teeth, growling furiously while shaking it madly in the air.

Furball was causing their opponents no end of trouble. The dog had adopted a rather clever, yet basic fighting strategy which consisted of constant moving and biting everything within the reach of his jaws -- with a strong focus on calves. The mercenaries, more accustomed to humanoids opponent standing firmly on their feet and not jumping around randomly chewing their opponents' calves, were totally overwhelmed, and Vanin almost felt sorry for them. _Almost_.

"Ayya, sorry Bombassa!" the Dunmer called Ralentu said, covering his mouth with the tip of his fingers.

"Why didn't you simply catch him?!" Bombassa barked back, foaming a bit inside his mouth in rage and pain.

Ralentu gulped and Furball, deciding to switch targets just for a change, ran toward him, his fur bristled and emitting a deep growl. "Hey, I would like my fingers to stay attached to my hands, thank you!"

"_Enough!" _Bombassa barked, stopping to massage his foot and picking up his scimitar he had dropped on the floor. "Kill that toothy ball of fluff and let's get over it!"

The Redguard's word worked as a spur on Vanin, who straightened up and made his hinges creak. Bombassa has made a good point – that was enough. Vanin and Furball were on a rescue mission and there was no more time to lose - who knew how long would Hassildor manage to stand against Raksada...

If the mage had thought for a moment to run away from his opponents, he had quickly realized he was just putting off the inevitable. Rather taking the bull by the horns, even if the bull in question was two feet tall, armed with an axe and assisted by an extremely talented pyromaniac medium - who was still arguing, by the way...

"Not my fault if you are totally scatterbrained," Anirne hissed in Urzob's face, her nose almost touching the Orc's. "You should have guessed I was about to launch that attack."

"Talking about being scatterbrained..." the Orc growled back, gripping the shaft of her axe tighter. "What about _me_ scattering _your_ brain right now...?"

Anirne's bitter answer died on her lips as a crystalline sound resounded above their heads. They quickly jumped away, narrowly avoiding the rain of pointy snow crystals which started to fall from the ceiling and embedded themselves in the ground.

"What the...?!" Urzob barked, turning toward Vanin, who was looking at them in a nonchalant pose with a hand on his hip, his magic staff rippling with blue magical sparkles.

"Sorry for the interruption, ladies," the mage said, smiling widely. "But it is getting late, and you know, old people like me need to go to bed early..."

The Orc and the Altmer exchanged a quick look.

"Just try not to fry me, all right?" Urzob said from the corner of her mouth to Anirne before charging at the mage. But this time, he was resolutely waiting for her...

As the axe was once again raised above his head, the mage made no move to parry the blow, to the Orc's greatest surprise. Instead, he yelled a powerful incantation, creating a bluish energy shield around him.

It was too late for Urzob to stop her attack, and her eyes widened as her axe bounced with a dull sound from the magical protection, so hard both the weapon and the Orc were violently projected backward – exactly as Vanin was expecting.

As the Orc tried to get her balance back, the magical shield popped up with a _"plop"_, and a rain of sparkles flew in the air before concentrating at high speed between Vanin's hands. Another incantation was pronounced and with horror Urzob watched a ray of blue light flashing toward her chest at a high speed. She closed her eyes, anticipating the lethal blow...

There was a strong flash of light behind her closed eyelids and she felt the air around her suddenly getting very hot – but nothing concerning the terrible pain she was expecting when her organs would melt from the heat...

Prudently, the Orc opened an eye, to see that Anirne had jumped before her and deflected their opponent's attack by a fire counter-spell, which has left a large soot trail in the ground in front of her.

Vanin took a step backward and swore under his breath, his brows knitting in surprise and concern. The mage had initially wanted to get rid of the Orc first, as she represented the most direct threat – attacking hand to hand – but now he wondered if he hadn't made a huge strategic mistake by not neutralising the Altmer beforehand.

Because she had just stopped Elibrae's Amazing Death Ray – and easily so. _Damn._

Oh, of course, it was not impossible to parry the spell. Actually, despite being powerful, the hex was rather common. Nevertheless, it required a lot of craftiness in the mastery of complex arcane magic to stop it as neatly as the young Altmer just did, and theoretically, one was not supposed to be able to do such a thing with _basic_ fire elemental magic, however powerful such raw magic might be...

"You know," Vanin started softly, as his mind raced to try to work out what his next move was going to be, "that by doing what you just did, you invalidated years of research on the nature of magic by the most prominent mages of the Arcane University?"

"Oh, I am really sorry for popping up your bubble, mage." Anirne replied in a mock-sad tone, while, Urzob got back carefully on her feet behind her, retrieving her axe and shooting Vanin a murderous look.

"Shall I send a funeral urn filled with your smoking remains back to the University to support my thesis that natural magic is much more superior to your fussy arcane _science_?"

"Oh no – not before I tear him to shreds!"

There was a whistling sound in the air and Vanin just had the time to jump backward to avoid the attack of the Orc, who had taken advantages of the little chat between Anirne and the mage to charge the latter at amazing speed for a creature of her size.

Even if the Imperial was quick enough to avoid getting cut into two, he could not have prevented the tip of one of the blades to get caught in the front part of his cloak and robes - fortunately leaving him unscathed, but tearing apart the pocket in which he was storing the pyramid, the notes and Trencavel's necklace he and Hassildor had stolen from Raksada's quarters.

In slow motion, his eyes opened wide. Vanin saw the items flying in the air, between him and Urzob. He prepared to jump forward to try to catch the objects, but Urzob suddenly moved aside to give way to the rain of fireballs Anirne had launched at the mage.

Uttering an awful curse, the Imperial leapt aside and rolled on the floor, fast enough to avoid the destructive fires. But the items were not as lucky...

"No!" Vanin yelled helplessly as he saw the fireballs flying toward the objects.

In a magnificent burst of flames, the spell hit the items, setting aflame the notes and the precious information they contained.

* * *

"Crackeeeeeeeer!"

The horrible scream which pierced his ears made Lucien get back into touch with reality again. Blinking furiously to adjust his blurry vision, the Imperial squinted on Polly the Parrot perched on his chest and flapping her wings furiously.

Lucien, still groggy, groaned and got up laboriously from the ground where he was lying flat on his back. He could not have said _exactly_ what happened, but his first observations brought him to draw the conclusion that a wall of the throne room had exploded for unknown reasons, making rocks and plaster flying all across the room – as well as people.

A concert of panicked screams was echoing in between the walls while the place was entirely drowned in a large cloud of whitish dust. The explosion and lack of visibility had plunged the place into total confusion, with people running around in terror, while a few officers and advisers of Sha'ka were desperately trying to bring back order, without much success so far.

"_Great. Just… great._" Lucien thought as he took a few steps on shaky legs toward the nearest wall, hiding behind an encrusted pillar to try to find some protection from the panicked flow of people. Unholy Mother, why, _why _did everything have to always turn sour at some point?!

J'Ghasta had failed in his mission, that traitor of Mudli had disappeared and now half of the palace was falling on their head. Lucien was not superstitious, but sometimes he had the feeling he was followed by bad luck. The only positive point was that it seemed everyone had forgotten about him and J'Ghasta – for the moment.

Leaving the shelter offered by the pillar, Lucien started to elbow his way in the crowd with a great difficulty. Polly, perched on his shoulder, was driving her claws in his skin, her feathers all ruffled in panic. All around, the guests, guards and servants were all trying to find an exit, bumping into each other, jostling, screaming and often trampling on each other – and Lucien himself stumbled several times on inanimate forms on the floor.

As he did his best not to be pushed around and trampled to death, the Imperial looked around him to find signs of J'Ghasta, or even Fog Marley, but in such a mess it was easier trying to find a sober Rastajiit in a Skooma den…

But it got worse... All of a sudden, the screams increased in intensity and Lucien found himself caught in a ripple in the crowd when another explosion made the tiled floor explode on his left. The little snowy crystals that rose in the air did not left any doubt on what provoked the explosion…

'_Sithis, there is a bunch of nuts having a magical battle!'_ Lucien thought, as he desperately tried to get in the opposite direction of the crowd in order to get near the centre of the room where he had seen J'Ghasta last. It certainly wasn't the wisest thing to do, given most of the guards were concentrating in that area and trying to evacuate Sha'ka's inanimate body, but it was the best plan Lucien had in store for the moment.

More hexes were flying in the air now. Powerful ones, which regularly pulverised entire sections of the stone work and threatened the very structure of the room. Lucien gritted his teeth; the magical adepts currently fighting were certainly not beginners, but they should have been moderating their enthusiasm if they didn't want to end up burying the whole audience under the rubble of the Throne Room.

More hexes were flying around, and some sinister noises indicated him part of the room were about to collapse on them.

"Lucien, man! Over there!"

Despite the surrounding racket, the assassin managed to hear the voice and turned around. A few meters away stood a totally panicked Fog Marley, supporting a half-conscious J'Ghasta as best as he could. The latter did not look as if he was at the his best form: relying heavily on Fog's shoulder, his glassy stare looking at nothing, he looked like all energy had left him; as if all the adrenaline of the fight had suddenly vanished.

Swearing under his breath, Lucien pushed and shoved to get near them – regretting incidentally that he didn't have a dagger to hack his way through the crowd more efficiently.

"Aya, we must get out of here!" Fog shrieked in a voice breaking with terror.

Amidst the general pushing and showing, the Khajiit had lost his multicoloured beret and his foolish expression, his face being tarnished with utter panic at the very moment.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Lucien barked, pushing him aside violently to support J'Ghasta.

"Are you all right?"

J'Ghasta blinked, his paw moving toward his chest and patting it carefully.

"I think… he broke me a rib. Maybe… more than one actually," he stopped and winced as his paw left his chest to move toward his jaw, "Oh crap, the bastard broke me a fang too!"

"Could have been worse." Lucien observed with the philosophical distance of a regular of chronic hassles, before his eyes opened wide. Popping from the crowd, an Amabutho had just materialised in front of him, looking as surprised as he was.

"Could _still_ be worse, actually!" the Imperial added, throwing his foot in the guard's stomach and pushing him out of the way. "_Run_!"

Without waiting for an answer, Lucien rushed forward into the crowd, dragging J'Ghasta, followed by Fog Marley. Behind him, he heard the screams of more guards who had recovered from their surprise and had started to chase after them: "It's them! The assassins! Get them! _Get them_!"

"Fine." J'Ghasta whispered in Lucien's ear, still leaning heavily on his shoulder. "And what now, hey, Speaker Lachance...?"

"Don't worry," Lucien replied firmly as he led them toward the long balcony which followed the Throne Room, "I... have a plan."

The Khajiit gave a weak smile: "Is that supposed to comfort me...?"

'_Oh no, it is not.'_ Lucien thought as he grabbed one of the long hangings which ornamented the ceiling, and part of which came undone in the commotion. _'Actually, I also am starting to get worried about my own stupidity.'_

"Wait – what do you think you are doing?!" J'Ghasta asked hurriedly as the Imperial put a feet on the parapet holding onto the hanging as he would have done with a rope.

"Something I won't be able to regret for the rest of my life because if it fails, said life is going to end up very quickly..." Lucien replied with a horrible grin; a wicked mix of sheer terror and excitement.

"Try to cling on me as hard as you can," the Imperial advised him before turning to Fog, who was glaring at them with disbelief in his face. "That applies to you too, if you want to save your miserable junkie life..."

The Rastajiit looked behind. The guards were almost on them, and the look on their face clearly indicated their intentions with the fugitives were anything but friendly, and implied a long holiday in a dark cell in the company of red-hot brands... Fog gulped before looking back at Lucien.

"Man, you are not going to jump...?" he said with a little sceptic laugh.

Lucien ignored him and threw himself into the air with a protesting J'Ghasta, holding tight to the piece of cloth.

"You are mad! You are utterly _mad_, man!" the Rastajiit yelled – nevertheless jumping on Lucien's back as the assassin stepped into the air, just in time avoiding getting caught by the guards, yelling in rage and frustration as they looked at the fugitives escaping.

Lucien felt his guts in his mouth as they fell down, while Polly the parrot circled around them screeching "Crakeeeeeeeeeer!"

As they reached the full length of the hanging, the cloth tautened dramatically under their combined weight. Lucien gritted his teeth – now, either it cracked or resisted.

It resisted.

Screaming, the three companions described a nice arch in the air, while the laws of physics and more particularly centrifugal force drove them back toward the palace, two levels below the Throne room.

"Ah-_ah_!" Lucien exclaimed triumphantly, turning his head toward J'Ghasta and Fog, who were clutching to him convulsively. "Told you I had a plan!"

The Rastajiit did not seem to be as happy as Lucien. Eyes wide with fear, he grabbed the Imperial's chin and forced him to watch in front of him again.

"If your plan was to crash against the wall, you're a genius, man!"

Lucien's eyes widened as well as he saw the front of the building getting closer and closer. With their speed and weight, there was no way Lucien was going to be able to absorb the shock with his legs without – at best – breaking a bone in the process, but there was a slight hope in the form of a large window, a bit below their virtual point of impact on the wall...

Lucien took a deep breath. With a bit of luck – no, with a _lot _of luck, maybe he could...?

"We let go off!" he yelled, releasing his grip on the cloth rope.

* * *

M'kaba was looking sadly at the canvas on the ground, and from time to time, a long and desperate sigh lifted up his frail shoulders.

Of all the palace inhabitants, he was certainly the only one who was not attending Sha'ka's coronation today. Indeed, how could he have the heart to take part in the festivities while he was getting through the most difficult moment in his life...?

M'kaba continued to glare intently at the blank painting and a feeble whimper went through his lips.

It had been_ weeks_ since he had been ordered to paint that frieze and he was going _nowhere_. It seemed that inspiration had left him – quite ironical for one of the greatest and most avant-garde artist the country had known in centuries, who in a few years had totally rejuvenated the traditional Khajiiti painting techniques, as well as subjects tackled by his fellow countrymen to take them to new heights of post-modernism, where the intransigence of the concepts sublimated the phenomenological spirituality of temporal and improbable coincidences. **(1)**

But all that was just past glory. He had painted nothing in the last months, and even if he could forget about his hurt pride, he doubted his generous sponsor would show more patience. After all, tolerance and understanding were not what Raksada was famous for...

He was about to sigh again when a strange sound tickled his ears. It seemed to be getting closer and closer, and M'kaba was starting to wonder if the fumes from his pots of paint had started to attack his brain when a shadow materialised in the window...

And then, everything went very confused.

M'kaba would only remember that he had been pushed violently to the other side of the room into a pile of trestles, brushes and canvas, in an awful din provoked by his pots of paint being hurled everywhere as well as something sounding strangely like bodies rolling on the ground over several meters.

While he tried to disentangle himself from the mass of paper and wood in which he was caught in he heard voices saying things like "Woah... I can't believe we made it alive – even if J'Ghasta seemed to be out of i.", or "Man, you should seriously seek medical help you know – _'cause you are maaad_" and "Crakeeeer".

The voices continued to argue for a short moment, before vanishing in the distance, and when the Khajiit artist finally managed to get free, the room was totally empty.

M'kaba blinked a few times and cautiously walked toward his canvas, where he stared at it for a long, loooooong moment.

Looking up, he blinked a few more times and looked at the painting again, a puzzled expression on his face. The blank space had given way to a series of different silhouettes – two Khajiiti and one humanoid – painted in four different colours: yellow, blue and red respectively, with tiny pink bird footprints here and there.

The result was an intriguing set-up of bodies in different and rather comical positions, and the effect obtained was definitely... _interesting_. Of course, it was not what he had been told to realise, but one had to admit the concept was innovative...

No, no... This was definitely not innovative. This was simply... _revolutionary_.

With a huge delighted smile on his face as unexplored lands of creativity spread before him, M'kaba rose a pot of paint above his head, ready to pour the content on his head...

* * *

The platform in the Throne Room on which Princess Naandi and her servant M'Thunzi were standing had remained intact by a miracle. A group of Amabuthos had formed a protective circle around the two female Khajiits, driving back everyone who tried to escape the panic crowd and sought shelter on the dais while the rest of their troop was trying to protect Sha'ka and evacuated him but with the cloud of dust around, it was difficult to distinguish anything around.

"M'Thunzi, where is Sha'ka?!" Naandi asked M'Thunzi, trying to get herself heard from her companion above the screams filling up the throne room. "I can't see him anymore!"

"I don't know!" M'Thunzi replied, screaming as well over the clamour. "They have disappeared from my sight as we-"

A powerful explosion above her head interrupted her, pulverising part of the ceiling and provoking a rain of dust and consequent pieces of masonry falling directly on them.

"Look out!" the princess yelled.

She jumped from the platform as far as she could, imitated by M'Thunzi. Naandi felt the shock wave from the collision as she rolled on the floor a few meters away, and heard the screams of pain of some unfortunate Amabuthoes, but wasn't quick enough to avoid the avalanche or rocks.

"M'Thunzi?" Naandi asked anxiously, scanning the dusty surroundings until she located the inanimate body of her servant – who opened an eye and, despite their current situation, shot her young companion an amused smile.

"I am fine, Princess." M'Thunzi replied, chuckling and straightened up on one elbow as the young Virgin of Dagomey sighed in relief: "I thought you would have rejoiced at the prospect of finally managing to get rid of me."

"No time for joking. Whoever is currently fighting is coming over here." Naandi warned.

The two women crawled into relative safety behind a huge piece of masonry and observed the scene from there; the dust around the silhouettes was still extremely thick, but their physical proximity and the light flashing from spells they were casting at each other, illuminating them intermittently, allowed the two Khajiits to get a better glimpse of the fighters' general aspect – a hooded individual armed with a dagger fighting an armoured one with a trident.

"Oh sweet Fadomai..." M'Thunzi uttered, putting her hand on her mouth, disbelief in her eyes. She turned to face the princess, and exchanged a perfectly horrified look with her.

"Hassildor and Raksada..." Naandi whined, her ears flattening on her head. "But what are they _doing_?"

"It looks like they did not like the decoration of the palace and decided to change it a bit," M'Thunzi replied sarcastically between gritted teeth. "Joke aside, I don't know what Hassildor and Vanin have done, but something must have gone_ very_ wrong somewhere in our plan. They were supposed to wait for tomorrow's procession, damnit!"

Naandi bit her lower lip, "What do we do now?"

"_You_ find Sha'ka and stay with him." M'Thunzi ordered.

"Someone trustworthy has to stay with him to make sure nothing unfortunate happens to him while he is..." the Khajiit hesitated, trying to find the most appropriate word as she had no indication of Sha'ka's current state of health, "... _recovering_. You understand?"

Naandi nodded in agreement. If she was annoyed to be given orders, she did not show any signs of it.

"And what are _you_ going to do?"

M'Thunzi grimaced. "Not sure yet. But I guess that if Hassildor has come here, it is not by accident... Now go!"

Again, the princess nodded and whispered a quick "good luck" before disappearing in the dust and the crowd, in search of her husband and the Amabuthoes. Taking a deep breath, M'Thunzi got on her feet and slowly tried to get closer to the two fighters, avoiding the panicked crowd, and apparently, she was not the only one to have the same idea...

A row of guards had finally managed to encircle the two antagonists, pointing their spears at them. Both standing in a fighting position, Raksada and Hassildor looked around them before exchanging a glance full of hatred, definitely not looking decided to surrender.

"_Enough!_" demanded a firm and very angry voice as a small and old Khajiit made his way through the row of guards, followed by a handful of Khajiits of honourable age and attitude, despite the fact they were covered in dust and that their robes were in a very poor state. The Council, Hassildor guessed, or, given their small number, a part of it.

"I order you two to stop that madness _right now!"_

Hassildor and Raksada hesitated, but as the old Khajiit stood between them, they finally lowered their weapons slowly, though ready to resume the fight if needed.

"Would you mind explaining us what is going on?" the Khajiit asked, shooting the belligerents a very severe look. "How dare you to fight in here?!"

"Councillor Zodwa! This man is a spy from the Empire!" the Dunmer exclaimed, pointing at Hassildor with the Spear of Bitter Mercy. "I caught him red-handed! Searching my private quarters for information he hoped to send to the Council in prevision of a future attack against Elsweyr!"

Zodwa frowned, imitated by some members of the Council, and turned to face the Count: "Is what High Councillor Raksada says true, Lord Hassildor? If so, I guess you are aware your diplomatic immunity won't protect you...?"

Despite his physical exhaustion and the poor state of his appearance, the Count estimated more prudent to observe a minimum of etiquette, and politely bowed to Zodwa and the rest of his venerable companions.

"I won't deny the fact that I broke into Raksada's quarter, Councillor," the vampire started, shooting a dark look at the Dunmer. "But only to find the proofs that he is a traitor to King Sha'ka and Elsweyr." He added, strongly enough to be heard by the Council and all the surrounding guards.

"Liar!" Raksada yelled angrily, covering the murmurs that had started among the ranks of the Council as well as those of the guards. "Don't listen to him! He is just trying to make a diversion!"

"High Councillor Raksada, please..." Zodwa tried to calm him down but without having much success. The Dunmer pushed him aside, not so gently, and walked menacingly toward Hassildor, stopping only at the limit where a further step would trigger an attack from the Count.

"Why don't you ask the Count where Master Vanin, his companion, is?" Raksada sniggered malevolently, calling upon the audience as witness.

Hassildor gritted his teeth, perfectly seeing where Raksada wanted to go with this.

"I ordered him to run away to save his life, given you had decided to kill us before being able to explain ourselves before Sha'ka or the Council," he explained coldly.

"Ah!" Raksada gave a derisive laugh and then turned toward Zodwa. "Vanin ran away with precious information he will undoubtedly transfer to the Council of the Elders!"

"Vanin had to flee! You attacked us and threatened our very lives!" Hassildor exploded, provoking the guards surrounding them to shift their positions in order to point their spears at him only.

"As for me, I only defended myself!"

"And what would you have done in my place, Count, if you had found _me_ stealing _your_ belongings in _your_ castle?!" Raksada spat.

Zodwa glared at Hassildor for a while, until a member of the Council whispered something in his ears.

"You have to admit your behaviour doesn't play in your favour, Lord Hassildor." the councillor observed, beholding the chaos which was still going on in the Throne room.

Most people had already left but there was still quite a few around, trying to take the wounded away, or simply standing there, in shock.

"Listen, I can prove what I am putting forward!" Hassildor said urgently, feeling that he was not about to gain the sympathy of the Council. "If only I could see Incosi Sha'ka..."

At the words, Zodwa's face darkened and he exchanged a worried glance with his companions, who shifted uneasily.

"I am afraid Incosi Sha'ka is... _unavailable _at the moment," he replied softly, ignoring the puzzled look Raksada shot him.

Hassildor's stomach turned upside down at the word. Without Sha'ka, the supreme ruler of Elsweyr around, things were going to be singularly complicated. "Then, judge by yourself." Hassildor begged Zodwa, as he started to ruffle into his partly lacerated shirt to retrieve the Foodoo dolls – or the wangas, as Vanin called them – they had stolen from Raksada's lair.

"Let me show you something..."

"_Watch out!"_

The Count did not have the time to come to guard himself from the attack one of the members of the Council tried to warn him about. Raksada was already on him, hitting him violently in the stomach with the shaft of his spear, then caught another hit in the chin when the vampire bent double under the first blow.

Blind with pain, Hassildor tried to slash the air in front of him in a defensive move to make his assailant retreat; waste of time. Raksada parried the blows easily and was on the Count again, pushing him against a pillar, pressing the Spear against his throat, pinning him against the stone while the Count's feet battered the air helplessly.

"Raksada, stop it immediately!" Zodwa yelled angrily, before becoming silent when Raksada turned toward him, with an expression the councillor would remember in his worst nightmares for the rest of his life.

"Stay away, you lot!" the Dunmer ordered the Amabuthoes and the members of the Council, "This is between me and the Count – and I will personally take care of those trying to intervene!"

He reported his attention on the struggling Count again, his face radiating with madness and unhealthy joy as he pressed the shaft of his spear further against the vampire's throat. "This is where your miserable _un-life_, Hassildor." he hissed.

Even though the vampire technically did not breathe any more, having his windpipe crushed by a metallic bar was far from comfortable – especially when the said metallic bar was being heat-up by a fire spell with the obvious aim to turn it red hot.

"I understood your eagerness to go deeper into the palace rather than finding an exit to escape – the _wangas_..." the Dark Elf whispered in the vampire's ear. "They are what you and your nosy friend of a mage stole from me, hey? And you hoped to lure me out here, to expose me to Sha'ka and the Council? You are a complete _fool_, Count."

Hassildor did not answer, struggling to ease the pressure and the heat on his throat, giving hard blow with his knees in Raksada's abdomen, but the latter cared nothing about it, jiggling like a maniac. The smell of burning flesh rose in the air and a violent pain irradiated in the region of Hassildor's larynx as the shaft was getting bright red. The Count groaned and stopped kicking Raksada, deciding to change tactics. Once again, it was a moment to see if Vanin's dirty fighting tricks could save his life...

Swinging his foot backward, Hassildor threw it in the general direction of the Dunmer's crotch, hoping the area would not be totally protected by the armour.

It was not.

An expression of agonising disbelief painted Raksada's face as he took a few steps back, pressing his thighs against one another and bending forward slowly, but still holding the Spear in both hands as his mouth opened with a mute scream of pain and offended protestation.

Growling in rage, his throat burning badly, Hassildor grabbed the already cooling spear shaft, and pulling Raksada toward him, he delivered such a powerful head butt it made the audience wince – mainly because the attack was a half-success... Because, if the power of the blow made the Dark Elf falling on his back, moaning in pain, the Count was not better off.

"One day I will remember to hit the bridge of the nose and _not_ the forehead." Hassildor whined, massaging the hurting spot between his eyebrow, though he was a bit comforted by the fact Raksada was doing exactly the same.

"Lord Hassildor!" exclaimed a familiar voice on his right.

The Count squinted in pain, nevertheless he still managed to identify M'Thunzi, who was hiding behind a collapsed pillar. She was staring at him with horrified eyes, obviously hesitating with how to help the Count.

The latter checked the space behind him. Raksada was still seated on the ground, groaning while holding his forehead but looking like he was recovering quickly. Not losing a second, the Count ruffled in his shirt again to throw M'Thunzi the _wangas_, but without even having enough time to put his hands on them he felt being pulled away and experienced an excruciating pain all over the right side of his body.

The Count had just enough time to catch a glimpse of Raksada standing up with his hand rippling with little flashes of lighting from the shock spell he was about to cast on him... before getting projected away, landing heavily on the ground, rolling on several meters before stopping. But the worst was to come...

So far, Hassildor had been lucky his fight with Raksada mainly took place in rather dark corridors of the Palace, whereas the Throne room with its large windows did not offer as much protection against sunlight – and the vampire had just landed right on a sunlit spot; the effects were quick to appear...

With horror the Count watched smoke rising from his arm, which was left unprotected by the heavy cloak and shirt, torn by Raksada during their earlier fight. Then came the horrible feeling of his limb being dipped into quicklime.

Under the effect of both pain and panic Hassildor retreated quickly from the light to get back to the shade, holding his throbbing arm with his valid hand.

"So Count, feeling like taking a little sunbath?" Walking slowly toward the vampire with a satisfied smile on his lips, Raksada was preparing another attack, his free hand rippling with arcane energy.

"Given your state, it's not a good idea..."

Gasping for breath, half-blinded by the mix of sweat and tears in his eyes, Hassildor was desperately trying to think coherently but his brain seemed determined to focus only on the terrible ache, and it was with mixed feelings of despair and resignation that he saw Raksada getting closer to him, his face sporting an expression of malignant glee.

With obvious amusement the Dunmer stopped and silently observed the Count fighting the furious need to faint before a flash of green light flew from his hand.

Against all odds though, the hex did not hit the vampire but at a pillar standing on his side, which, bending dangerously, was threatening to collapse – which it finally did when the spell hit its already badly damaged base.

Screams of horror rose from the spectators when the stones fell on Hassildor and hit the ground with an infernal noise, lifting a huge cloud of dust, making people suffocate and cough.

The majority of the remaining few, along with the councilors, ran away from the room, fearing the rest of the ceiling may follow.

Only a handful of guards stayed with Raksada. His eyes riveting on the spot where Hassildor was still standing a few seconds ago, he pulled what was left of his cape over his mouth and nose to protect himself from the particles of stones.

After what seemed to the onlookers like an eternity, the dust slowly settled, revealing a chaos of stones – and no trace of Hassildor.

A nasty smile on his lips, Raksada violently pushed aside the guards, who were standing in front of him and walked closer to the pile of rubbles. His smile suddenly disappeared from his face, replaced by an angry grimace.

There was no sign of Hassildor anywhere, undead – or dead.

One the other hand, there was a big hole in the floor, provoked by the collapse of the ceiling leading to the level underneath...

"He cast a shielding spell... of course," Raksada whispered to himself, opening and closing his fists in anger. He turned to face the guards and pointed to the hole: "Everyone gets down! Immediately!

* * *

"_No!_" Vanin yelled again.

He jumped forward as far as his portliness allowed him to, trying to reach the notes which had started to burn on the ground, but something rolled up on the around his ankle, breaking his momentum and making him to fell heavily on the ground.

"Hey, not so fast!" Ralentu exclaimed victoriously, pulling on the chain which now encircled Vanin's ankle.

The Dunmer had momentarily left his showdown with Furball, leaving Bombassa alone to face the angry dog, probably imagining than helping Anirne and Urzob against Vanin would be easier. He was greatly mistaken; if an angry little dog had been a formidable foe, an angry mage who started to get really-fed-up-with-all-this-damnit was even worse.

Vanin's face was painted with a very angry expression as he grabbed the chain with both hands. "Go back playing with your little ball with the doggie!" Vanin hissed as he grabbed the chain with both hands. "I have no time loose!"

As he spoke, he pulled violently on the chain, making Ralentu leap forward and bump into Anirne who was rushing at the mage at the same time. The collision was rather violent, making both Elves fall to the ground – Ralentu over Anirne, the latter rolling her eyes as the Dark elf landed heavily on her chest, cutting her breath.

"You moronic... ashborn! Move your ass... of me!" she panted, trying to push him aside.

But Ralentu did not get the opportunity. A wave of energy came out of Vanin's hands, starting to run along the metallic chain – a very, _very_ old fighting trick. Sadly for him, the Dunmer seemed to ignore Vanin's classical fighting tips, and instead of wisely releasing the chains, he glared at the flash of lighting with a perfectly stupid and dumbfounded expression.

"Oops." he whispered just before the spell hit and electrocuted Anirne and himself. Both gave a short yelp of pain and surprise before remaining still, surrounded by a strong smell of burnt flesh and a few moans.

Vanin did not lose time to claim victory. He jumped back to his feet and ran toward the notes, which were still slowly burning on the ground, hoping there was still enough to save. But he had to stop again when Urzob suddenly popped up between him and the remains of the precious book, firmly holding the shaft of her axe in hands.

"Sorry, Fatso," the Orc said with a grin so large that the upper part of her head threatened to fall to the ground. "I am afraid you will have to find yourself something else to read."

"You have no idea about what you are doing." Vanin hissed, not moving, but his eyes shifting from the Orc back to the notes, part of which had already turned into a delicate lace-work of smouldering ashes.

"You _really_ have no idea..."

"I think I am actually annoying you a lot. And I take great pleasure from it."

To Urzob's surprise, the mage smirked at her: "Oh, fine then. But your pleasure may be short as you will be happy to learn these are _Raksada's_ personal notes that are burning here..." Vanin replied with a pout, pointing at the book.

At his words, the mage saw the Orc's eyes widening in shock and the smile being wiped out her face. She turned around in panic, raising her foot to trample on the notes to put the fire out. Surprise replaced panic on Urzob's face as she realised someone had already tended to that.

"Well done, Furball!" Vanin exclaimed happily as the dog finished peeing on the book, the flames dying in a little _"psssit" _noise, a faint smoke rising from the stiffening, black pages.

Furball gave a satisfied sigh and before running to Vanin, who favoured him with a large grin before turning his attention to the Orc.

"I would _love _to see Raksada's face when you give him back his precious notes..." he chuckled.

"Not your business, mage," Bombassa's voice resounded at his back. The Redguard had taken advantage of the diversion offered by the burning notes to get rid of Furball and sneak behind Vanin, his scimitar in hand.

"Especially after you will be dead – _ah no, not again!_" he ended his sentence, squeaking in fear and retreating as Furball started to growl, baring his teeth at him.

"Do you know who you are truly working for...?" Vanin asked while watching Anirne and Ralentu from the corner of his eyes as they laboriously got on their feet, supporting each other and shooting him very unpleasant looks.

"For how long have you been working for him? You look a bit dense, but but tell me you have _not_ noticed something wrong...?"

"Once again, not your business mage." Bombassa replied in a flat tone, but Vanin managed to detect a slight touch of doubt – and even fear.

"Ye Gods, I am so going to _bump him off_..." Anirne growled as she and Ralentu got near to Bombassa, limping slightly. The shock spell Vanin used had a strange effect on her hair; her haircut offered an interesting likeness to a broom which had been struck by a lightning.

"_We_ are so going to bump him off," Bombassa snapped, raising his scimitar, imitated by Urzob, while Ralentu was making his chain whirl in the air again, and flames started to dance around Anirne's finger.

There was a long pause during which the opponents observed each other, remaining as still as statues, their silence punctuated by the _"foom foom"_ of Ralentu's whirling chain. Vanin's and Furball's eyes were moving back and forth from the mercenaries who trapped them in a pincher.

And then, the Four Magnificent charged. But this time, there was no screams or yells as they attacked. The show was over, and the noisy enthusiasm of the beginning had now given way to the quietness of fed-up people, who wanted to finish the job _quickly_.

To Bombassa's greatest surprise, Vanin did not make a single move to defend himself. He just stood there with the dog, showing no signs of fear or worries, except for his brows being knitted in concentration.

Bombassa's lips curled up in a nasty smile as he prepared to strike the mage along with his companions. At the last moment, there was a sudden flash of light and instead of Vanin's head, the Redguard's scimitar only split thin air.

"What the...?" Bombassa screamed, slightly crestfallen.

His disappointment was short-lived, though, soon replaced by horror when the Redguard realised that he and his two companions were about to smash together with a seven feet tall Orc running at full speed.

The collision was so brutal that Vanin, who had teleported himself and Furball a few meters from their initial position, was ready to swear the walls trembled when Bombassa, Anirne and Ralentu embedded themselves into Urzob – or maybe was it the opposite?

Nevertheless, the question did not prevent Vanin from rushing forward to grab the metallic ball which ended Ralentu's chain, and to throw it in the air in a large lateral movement around the Four Magnificent.

"Furball! Get the chain!" the mage yelled, pointing at the metallic ball, which was whirling, tying up the group of groggy mercenaries.

"Whif!"

As quick as a furry lighting, the dog caught the end of the chain in his teeth and thanks to his impetus and centrifugal force, he started to revolve around the group like a crazy, drooling and fluffy little planet, adjusting his trajectory to bind the Four Magnificent better and tighter.

When he was about to reach the end of the chain, he let go and Vanin shot a tiny fire ball which sealed the extremity of the chain with the links already fitting the mercenaries tightly.

There was an astonished pause, equalling the time it took to the now-tied-up face to face Four Magnificent to realise what just happened.

"Waitwaitwait..." Bombassa finally started in a dumbfounded voice, eyes like saucers and his face flushed because of the pressure. "The dog tied us up...? _The dog tied us up...?!"_

"Well spotted, Captain Obvious." Urzob growled, struggling madly to free her arms, but only succeeding in suffocating her companions as she increased the pressure of the chain around their chests.

"Give me five, Furball!" Vanin exclaimed victoriously, raising a hand in the air to high-five the dog.

"Whiff?"

"Oh, forget about it." Vanin sighed before turning his attention on the mercenaries. The use of Medroficus' Cabalistic Teleportation had consumed what was left of his magical powers, but it was worth it, really.

"This is how you get rid of a big bunch of dummies, Furball," the mage started, pointing at the struggling Four Magnificent. "Never forget that by time and toil we sever what strength and rage could never!"

The dog looked around to take a better look at the ravage place and at all the dead bodies on the ground, then turned to the mage again, raising a dubitative eyebrow.

The mage had the decency to look embarrassed. "Er… Let's get the book and leave, shall we?" he said with a cough as he walked over to the notes to pick them up, ignoring the mercenaries who were arguing at his back, with comments like "It's too tight – I'm suffocating!", "Try to loosen the chains!" and "Hey, take your hands of my butt, you moron!"

Vanin winced in disgust when his fingers came into contact with the very... _humid_ papers.

"Ewww. And to think I will have to put them back in my robes."

But more than this - rather grim - prospect, it was the damage done to the notes both by the fire and Fireball's "rescue" attempts that made him wince. Entire sections of the book were carbonated, soaking wet – or both. Nevertheless, some parts seemed to have survived the massacre and Vanin hoped they were still exploitable, or else they would have taken all those risks for nothing.

Plus, Hassildor was certainly going to say that he did not take good care of his belongings again...

"You won't get out of here alive, mage!" Bombassa yelled at Vanin as the latter put the notes in his robes with a sour grimace and then attached the Trencavel's necklace around his neck for more safety.

"Raksada will find you, and who laughs the last laughs the best!"

"Oooh, but I have good hopes Raksada will find me, Redguard. And _I_ will definitely have a good laugh!" The mage replied with a little ironical salute before disappearing into a corridor.

Furball gave a derisive _"whif!"_ to the warriors, then quickly followed Vanin.

The Four Magnificent heard their footsteps dying in the distance.

"Beaten by a dog and a tube of lard... Raksada is going to _love_ that one." Urzob growled. "The only positive point I can see here is that he probably won't let us live long enough to suffer the shame to be a laughingstock for our entire existence."

"So, what do we do now?" the muffled voice of Anirne asked from somewhere around Urzob's stomach, with the patient tone of someone on the verge of exploding, "We call for help?"

Ralentu looked appalled. "We will look like complete morons if we do that!" he exclaimed.

"Won't change anything much in your case." Urzob pointed out maliciously. "And anyway, what do you think we will look like when someone will find us tidied up like this, yelling or not?"

"Urzob, you really can't try to break the chain?" Bombassa asked her.

"No, she can't," Ralentu explained. "It is made out of mithril. Only magic will be able to do that."

At his words, all heads turned – with difficulty – toward Anirne.

"And sadly, mithril is an excellent heat conductor, so any attempt from me to break the chain will end up in turning us all into grilled sausages," she sighed.

A thoughtful silence welcomed the remark, until a heavy sigh broke it.

"All right," Bombassa said. "On the count of three, we all start yelling. One... Two..."

* * *

A silhouette was limping through the dark and deserted corridor, and that silhouette was desperately hoping that the corridor would stay dark and deserted, but he did not delude himself. It was just a matter of time before Raksada found his track again.

Hassildor gritted his teeth to contain the screams of pain as he clutched his left arm and shoulder, both still smoking slightly, the skin all reddish and cracked. The vampire grimaced at the sight; if it carried on like this, Raksada would only find a little pile of ash to stand against him...

Deciding it was pointless to continue, Hassildor leaned against the first wall available and slowly slid against it until he found himself sitting on the ground. What to do now?

Panting, Hassildor rummaged in his torn shirt and retrieved one of the Foodoo dolls – Vanin's. The Count gave a sad laugh, hoping his friend and Furball would be luckier than him, at least...

A wave of pain ran through his arm and chest, and he groaned softly. The ache was almost unbearable and he had to do his best not to collapse on the ground, twisting in pain.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" said a voice from the darkest part of the corridor. "But don't worry. Soon, pain, as well your existence, will only be a bad memory."

Still breathing heavily, the vampire turned his head in the direction of the voice, to see Raksada slowly emerging from the shadows that had been concealing him, followed by a squad of guards.

Despite the state of his outfit – his armour dented and covered in blood and dust, his cape in rags and sweat running down his face – the Dunmer was walking calmly and somewhat majestically toward him, holding his spear in one hand. He stopped a few meters from the Count and tidied his long curly hair in an affected move.

"Surrender yourself, Lord Hassildor," Raksada said in a harsh whisper. He was not smiling, his face keeping a solemn expression. Nevertheless, it was obvious that if the Dunmer's eyes could speak, they would have burst out into a maniacal laugher. "It is over."

Hassildor had a both derisive and desperate snigger as he straightened up against the wall, facing his opponent on shaky legs. "Surrender? And what for, pray tell? You are going to kill me anyway."

Raksada tossed juggled with his spear, tossing it over with a thoughtful expression, eventually splitting into a wide smile.

"True. _Very_ true," the Dunmer said, shaking his forefinger at Hassildor. "Well, let's say that if you give yourself up, I will do my best to give you a quick and non-painful death – as well as a decent burial if I am in the mood or if there is enough of you left. So, my dear Count…?"

As an answer, and against all odds, Hassildor took his Dwemer dagger out of its sheath once more and staggered a few feet from the wall. A murmur of surprise and a somewhat admiring disbelief rose from the crowd of guards behind Raksada.

The Dunmer looked at the vampire with disapproval.

"Ah, you are being _intrepid _again, aren't you?" Raksada said sarcastically, before he sighed theatrically and put his hands on his hips, "That is perfectly childish you know, and I…"

Raksada did not finish his sentence because the Count had just jumped on him with surprising speed given his poor physical health, his dagger raised.

Their audience did not catch every move of the attack, but perfectly heard the metallic sound of their weapons, clashing against one another, then another sound, much softer, like skin being cut quickly.

A short yelp resounded in between the walls and Hassildor was violently pushed backward, landing on his back away from Raksada.

There was a pause during which Raksada remained immobile, glaring in front of him, his eyes wide while blood started to run down his face, a long and deep gash running from the left side of his forehead to the opposite side of his chin.

In the meantime Hassildor had straightened up to his knees, slowly and groaning in pain holding his ribs where Raksada's foot had hit him. In a heavy silence, the Count saw the Dunmer quickly retrieving what looked like a powder compact from one of his leather purses. Raksada opened it and eyed himself critically in the tiny mirror.

At the sight of the slash on his face, his nostrils flared in rage, his lips pursed as he wiped the fresh blood from his eye with the back of his hand, while the wound was getting encrusted by the muddy substance which seems to be the true liquid circulating in his veins.

The Dunmer shut the powder compact close in a dry sound and when he talked, it was in a whisper full of hatred. "Frankly Hassildor, I was disposed to be merciful toward you. I _really_ was," Raksada made a long, carefully composed pause.

"_But __that__ was the last __straw_!" The Dunmer had yelled at the top of his lungs the last sentence, which echoed sinisterly in the corridor.

Still kneeling on the ground, Hassildor sniggered. "Oh, someone doesn't like to see any harm coming to his precious little face, does he? Vanin was right – you are pathologically _vain_."

"You... wretched... disgusting... _bloodsucker_." Raksada hissed, the Spear of Bitter Mercy and the little crystal chips inlaid in his armour now starting to glow in a sinister greenish light. "You are _so_ going to..."

"Don't make such a fuss, Raksada," Hassildor interrupted him, "We both know no irreparable damage has been done to your face." He had another derisive and somewhat nervous chuckle.

"You are already sweating mud again – and mud is said to be good for the skin, isn't it?" The joke was bad, Hassildor knew, but he was merely an inch from having a severe nervous breakdown.

The Dunmer looked stunned, before he recuperated from the shock and rolled his eyes, clapping his hands together in a sarcastic manner.

"Oh, you think you are funny, hey, Count?" he asked, taking one step forward with the Spear of Bitter Mercy gleaming sinisterly, "But you are soon going to learn what it costs to laugh at my _expense_..."

As Raksada spoke the sound of war drums had started rising in the air, and once again, his spear and armour's glow pulsating in rhythm.

Hassildor got on his feet as quick as his physical condition allowed him to, shooting nervous glances around him. The corridor seemed to have become much darker than it originally was, but what was worrying Hassildor the most was the smell of putrescence which almost made him gag. It was so strong it seemed solid and even... _alive_?

"Honestly, I am impressed, Count. I did not think initially I would have to use that spell against you. Actually, I wanted to avoid it." Raksada purred, giving a hint of a few dance steps based on the rhythm given by the invisible drums.

"But it has been a nice fight and I believe it should end up in _grand style_, don't you think?"

The rhythm had increased, the place was now full of almost solid darkness. The Count could not discern anything around him any more – everything and everyone seemed to have been swallowed by the darkness as thick as cotton wool, so thick the Count could almost feel it brushing against his clothes, and could feel it... _breathing?_

And then, Hassildor saw _them_.

Barely standing out from the general darkness, their only visible features being tiny greenish dots the Count suspected to be their eyes, floating into their shapeless face, as well as their long, long _fingers _– no, their _claws_, Hassildor corrected himself mentally.

But above all, what was the most striking about the creatures – like every time Raksada had used his sick magic – was the terrible smell of corpse in putrefaction emanating from them. This time it was so strong it almost made Hassildor faint.

But the creatures did not give him the time to do so.

Their little green eyes fell upon him and all of a sudden turned bright red. At phenomenal speed, one of them raised its claw-like hands and slashed at the Count. The vampire tried to avoid the attack by jumping backward but he was not quick enough and the claws as sharp as razors lacerated his forearm.

Not wasting time screaming in pain, Hassildor managed to avoid another blow, but a third one got him in the back and soon he was caught in a rain of razors. The Count only avoided or parried a blow only to receive another one.

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, Count Hassildor," the vampire heard Raksada saying from somewhere in the darkness.

"No, wait – actually, it has not." There was a crystalline and theatrical laugh. "Farewell, dear Count, and may your soul rot in the darkest corner of Oblivion until the end of time!"

Yelling in rage, the Count tried a last and desperate attack, focusing all that was left of his magical energy into a powerful attack. Raksada had said he wanted it to end in grand style? He was going to get served.

The power of the arcane energy of Molleen's Infernal Apocalypse ran along Hassildor's body and concentrated in his hands, before the Count unleashed the hex on the foolish creatures. Despite his vision becoming blurry from the exhaustion, the vampire saw a wall of bright blue flames engulfing his opponents, making them retreating. A hissing sound, like wet wood burning, rose in the air as the fire started to eat into whatever they were made of.

To Hassildor's greatest dismay, the creatures did not burn to the bones – admitting they had any... A whirling wind surrounded them, sweeping the flames away from those repulsive things, before concentrating into a large fiery ball in between Hassildor and his attackers.

With horror the Count realised that the creatures were about to return his own spell and that he was too exhausted to even think about a way to avoid the hex. There was a flash of light when the energy of the spell was released and hit him.

The shock was so brutal and fast Hassildor did not even have the time to feel surprised. His eyes just managed to open wide in pain when he felt the burning flames exploding against his chest, lifting him up from the ground and projecting him backward with a rare violence.

An horrible snappy noise resounded in the corridor when he hit full force the wall behind him, smashing to bits the decorating ceramics and cracking the stones under it before falling on the ground face down.

In an ultimate effort, in agonising pain, Hassildor tried to raise his head from the floor. The creatures had disappeared and the corridor was back to normal, but everything was blurred and twirling. He nevertheless managed to distinguish Raksada's silhouette far, _far _away before something dark, hot and liquid ran down before his eyes.

_Blood_.

_His_.

Hassildor's head fell back down and he remained still.

* * *

**(1) ** This sentence gives you a headache? You think it doesn't make any sense at all? That is good. Because that is the main thing about contemporary art, you know – the least you understand, the better it is supposed to be.


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